


Made Weak By Time And Fate, But Strong In Will

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon, Depression, Drug Addiction, Gen, PTSD John, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 54,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock left their flat with his best friend, he was the World's only consulting detective. When he wakes up later, he is a cocaine addict lying in an abandoned building. Post-Reunion, AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He doesn’t remember how he got here. Or where _here_ is, exactly.

All he knows is that, suddenly, he wakes up on a cold floor, in what appears to be a quite dark and dreary building, freezing, exhausted, disoriented.

That’s the first thing he notices. Or rather the second, because the first thing he realizes is that his skin crawls and itches. All over his body.

He’s confused, and that’s not a feeling he’s used to, nor is it one, he decides, that he particularly likes.

Where is he? What happened? Why is he here? And where is John?

 _John_... The thought of his flatmate brings back a memory, at least.

There was case... Lestrade called. Sir Eustace Brackenstall, a MP, had been found dead in his London house, while his wife, Lady Brackenstall, was discovered unconscious and tied to a chair next to the body. Once she regained consciousness, she made a statement and accused a gang of three robbers – the Randalls.

Sherlock had known about them for a while by then, as had the police. They had first come to his attention when they had begun, about a year ago, to rob people walking home late at night.   
Lestrade had finally consulted him, because even the police had to admit now and then that an officer in plain clothes working undercover and trying to find out in certain pawn shops known for dealing with the underworld if some of the goods had been sold still sticks out like a sore thumb, no matter how good his act might happen to be.

Sherlock’s homeless network, on the other hand, belonged to the streets, was part of the cruel and hard world the robbers inhabited, and therefore, it had taken them less than two weeks to find out their names.

As it had turned out, they were a family; a father and his two adult sons. Even Sherlock had had to admit that a whole family turning to crime was a rather interesting concept; his sole complaint was that the crimes themselves should be so uninteresting.

Lestrade, as he usually did, had ignored this comment and started a country-wide search for the gang, because, there they had agreed, it was only a matter of time before they stopped robbing and turned to breaking and entering, which usually brought much more money. And, since some of their victims had landed in hospital, even though they hadn’t even tried to resist –

It was only a matter of time before someone was gravely injured or worse.

That seemed to have happened, but Lestrade had a “funny feeling” about it, as he put it. It wasn’t the lack of physical evidence: They only knew what the robbers looked like because one victim had seen a reflection of them in a shop window before a hand had clasped over his eyes and mouth, but there had never been DNA or any other clue, really: they were too smart for that. No, it was a hunch of Lestrade’s, and Sherlock, though he’d never admit it, wanted to help his friend.

The friend who’d let him sleep on his sofa when John had kicked him out after he revealed himself to be alive. He hadn’t even been that shocked to see Sherlock: his only comment had been “Took your time, didn’t you? So give him some, too. He’ll come around.” He’d been right, and Sherlock and John were back at 221B, solving crimes and bickering like in the old days.

Though John knew nothing about Sherlock’s nightmares, or the room in his mind palace where he kept the memories of the years spent in hiding and bringing down Moriarty’s web chained, because they had the annoying habit of creeping out and throwing themselves over him.

But nothing of that was important when he had a case.

So he simply told Lestrade he’d be there soon, called out to John, who’d of course by this time already laid aside the book he’d been reading, and they left the flat, telling Mrs. Hudson they were leaving on the way.

And then...

Sherlock winces as his temple begins to throb. Great, now he has a headache too.

And the last thing he remembers is leaving the flat with John. He doesn’t even know if they made it to the crime scene.

He just woke up somewhere he has no reason to be, his skin is crawling, he has a headache, he is exhausted, he is freezing, and –

Wait. Crawling skin.

_Oh no they didn’t._

Sherlock knows the feeling he’s experiencing right now – it’s commonly known as “coke bugs”. It’s a withdrawal symptom.

A withdrawal symptom he hasn’t felt for years because he’s been clean for a long time. Ever since Mycroft forced him to detox (good, he’d only agreed because Lestrade had told him that, yes, he could help on more cases but only if he became clean), and he refused to go to a clinic, so he went cold turkey and it almost killed him, but he was clean in the end.

Even the craving for the drug considerably lessened once Lestrade had proved true to his word and Sherlock could help out the police on a regular basis.

Well, and now and then, before John moved in, when he didn’t have cases and the boredom got too unbearable, yes, he had injected a little bit of cocaine, but not too much, and never enough to bring back any withdrawal symptoms.

And ever since he and John became what normal people called “friends” he hasn’t touched his secret stash once.

So why is he feeling like he just came down from a massive high?

There’s only one explanation: Someone must have kidnapped and drugged him. Maybe before they reached the crime scene.

But this means...

A wave of anxiousness hits him. Where’s John? What have they done to John?

And who are “they” exactly?

He shakes his head. The most important question he has to answer right now is: Where is he and how does he get out? Ever since he came back, he’s been entirely too sentimental.

Forget about John, at least for the time being. No use crying out for him.

 _A dark room, he with the knife in his hand, a young man bound to a chair, bleeding, crying,  demanding where his girlfriend is. She’s safe, but he doesn’t need to know that. “That’s none of your business right now” Sherlock says, coldly. “Tell me who your boss is...”_  

No use thinking about that now, either. He shoves the memory back into the room labelled “Being Dead” and looks around the one he currently occupies.

It’s dark, it’s cold, it’s gloomy, ugly, and – abandoned.

Of course. The curtains are barely holding together, there is no furniture, there is mildew on the wall, it smells –

An abandoned building, like the ones his homeless network likes to occupy. The last place for a person without hope to go.

A strange place to keep him, surely, but elegant in its way. Who’d come looking for him in a place like this?

But...

No one’s guarding him. Sherlock has developed a sense that tells him when anybody’s near him – he had to, after –

_A hand clasps over his shoulder. “Hello, there” a voice says in Spanish, “I guess I finally found the lonesome vigilante...”_

No. Nonononono. Just no. The present is more important.

So he stands up – he’s been lying on the floor the whole time, how embarrassing – and slowly – his body doesn’t seem to want to obey him – walks to the door. He opens it. Looks out.

There’s no one there, either. In fact, the whole building seems, as before stated, abandoned.

Good. Or not. Whatever. First, he has to get out of her. He only hopes he’s still in London. Then he has to find John.

And probably call Mycroft for help, though he doesn’t really like the thought.

So he sneaks out of the room and down the corridor, finds the stairs –

The place must have been a mansion once, it’s impressively big. Most likely considered to be haunted, which would explain why no one wants to live here. Come to think of it, it would be a great place to hide someone.

_“Trust me, nobody will hear you scream, now tell me who you are and why you’re tracking down our associates...”_

Sherlock comes to the entrance hall – it has taken forever to reach it, really, he feels so weak, like he hasn’t slept or eaten for weeks, and the crawling skin and the headache haven’t got much better.

Then he sees a shape moving in the corner of his eye and turns around as quickly as he can. Which isn’t that quick, really.

He relaxes when he realizes it’s only a dirty mirror.

But then –

Then he _sees himself_ and runs – or does something very similar, he can’t really run at the moment – to the wall so he’s standing in front of it, and his breath catches in his throat.

Because he’s only wearing a torn, dirty, faded T-shirt that might have been blue once upon a time, and an equally bad looking pair of jeans. No wonder he’s freezing.

Because he’s pale, and thin, even more so than when he returned, and he looks like a corpse, and it seems he hasn’t taken a shower or washed his hair in years.

Because there are tiny little marks from needles all over his arms.

Because it doesn’t take his powers of deduction to realize –

That the person he’s looking at has been a cocaine addict for years.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time he realizes the image in the mirror isn't going to change, minutes have passed. At least he thinks it's minutes; he can't be sure, really, with the way his whole body itches and his head pounds, and the cold and the dizziness and the exhaustion and the pain from some very clearly infected needle marks.

And this pain is the only reason he doesn't give in to a childish instinct and pinches himself: if he's already feeling all of this, how could such a trivial thing convince him he's awake?

He tries to find a rational explanation, but fails. Maybe it's not really a mirror? An idle hope, he knows, but one he clings to until he reaches out and touches a cold, dirty surface.

He tries to wipe some of the dirt away, but it only makes the image appear worse; his eyes have never been so bloodshot, and the shadows under them have never been quite so dark, even when he stayed up five days for a case – he only did so once, and would probably have held out longer, but John put him to bed eventually.

 _John_. The thought wakes him up from his trance-like state.

He has to get out of here and look for his flatmate.

But first...

First, although everything in him fights against the idea, he has to look around this house. It could be important; maybe there's a clue somewhere, something that can tell me what happened and why. He can't just run out into a city (hopefully a city; he can't imagine trying to get out of some remote country in the state he is in) he probably doesn't even know – most of the windows he's passed so far were too dirty to have a good look – in the clothes he's wearing – last thing he knows, it was the middle of November, and it's highly unlikely that he's spent months in a drugged state without waking up to at least a semi-consciousness once, though the way he looks would probably suggest otherwise – and expect results. He needs to look for clues here first of all.

Right now, there are only two facts he's sure about:

One, just a short time ago (at least he hopes so, he has no way of knowing how long he was unconscious), he was the only consulting detective in the world, on a way to a crime scene with his best friend.

Two, an even shorter time ago, he woke up as a cocaine addict lying in an abandoned building.

There has to be an explanation.

He needs more data.

At least he's alone, he can tell. And abandoned buildings are nothing new to him.

_Sherlock holds the gun. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. But you really should have stopped running your drug cartel when I warned you and gave you examples of what I've done to some of your associates so far." The man doesn't answer. He just looks at Sherlock, and the silence in the warehouse could be sliced with a knife._   
_Sherlock steadies his hand._   
_The shot rings out._

Not now. He has more important things to do right now.

And so, although he really doesn't want to, and everything in him his screaming to get out and look for John , he drags his aching body back up the stairs – he figures it's best to start where it, whatever "it" may happen to be, began.

The room turns out to be a dead end, however. Though it raises another question; He can see where his body has disturbed the dust, and the footmarks he left when he stumbled out of the room. But, other than those, no marks. He didn't walk here, he wasn't dragged, he wasn't carried – there would have to be footprints of at least one other person.

How did he get here?

He decides – and hopes his body will comply, because the withdrawal symptoms (and what if they aren't withdrawal symptoms? Maybe there's a drug that could – his mind must be slipping away. He knows the symptoms, he has been through them once already. No, definitely withdrawal symptoms. Think, Sherlock, think) – that he'll do this systematically.

Thankfully, the mansion turns out to be not so big after all; it has a ground level and a first floor with eight rooms each, yes, but no cellar, thank God, and no attic.

Seven of the rooms on the first floor, including the one he woke up in, are empty and offer no clues, and in his state he doesn't know whether to be thankful or angry about this. It's always the same – he'd probably call it "boring" in any other situation – no furniture, dust everywhere, mildew on the walls and the ceiling, and it's cold, cold, cold. Couldn't there at least be something, anything he could use to protect himself from the cold? He doesn't need this on top of everything else: By the time he's finished inspecting the seventh room, he's even more exhausted than before, the pain and dizziness have once again got worse, and he wishes he could lie down for a moment.

The only reason he doesn't, really, is that he's sure he wouldn't get up again.

Then he enters the eighth room, and, for the first time since he woke up in this bizarre situation, fells a surge of hope.

In the darkest corner, the one farthest from the door, he can barely spot an orange blanket.

_I'm in shock, look, I got a blanket._

God, how he wishes Lestrade were here. But that doesn't help.

He's going to need more light to examine this, and he drags himself to the window, because he's already made the discovery (though, in a house like this, it's hardly a discovery) that the light switches don't work. Electricity has been turned off for a long time, of course.

It's hard, and he almost collapses, but he manages to pull open one of the dirty windows (thankfully there are no curtains in this room).

And he's promptly positively surprised a second time – he knows the road he's looking at. Naturally, he does.

He knows every road in London.

This one – yes, there are normally barely any people around, and most of the buildings are abandoned, and it's in a part of town no one really likes to go, aside from Sherlock for a case, that is, but it's in _London_.

The city whose heartbeat he knows as well as his own.

He's still where he longed to be, those three long years during which he did everything in his power to be able to return. He's still _home_.

And it's definitely still the middle of November, if the weather is anything to go by. He shivers even more violently, if that is possible.

Nonetheless, he takes a moment to catch his breath – what did they, or whoever, do to him, and for how long, that opening a window leaves him breathless? He knows withdrawal symptoms, but you have to take cocaine for a prolonged period of time for it to get this bad this quickly – and drink in the familiar sight, then he turns back to the corner, that he can now see quite clearly.

There seem to be some items wrapped in the orange blanket, and since he has never had any respect about personal property or personal privacy, he immediately decides to investigate.

Turns out, there isn't much to look at – well, at least he gets a jacket out of it that fits him, so he isn't that cold anymore, and there's a – a kind of wallet, though it's shiny and new and quite expensive, so whoever lives here must have stolen it.

It's not like he's surprised, really.

But what he could really use right now is some cocaine.

He hates himself for the fact that he hoped he'd find some; he hates himself for the craving he feels for the drug. But he can't help it.

He's going through withdrawal and, right now, if he wants to keep a clear head, do the right thing, find John and solve this mystery, what he needs is the drug.

" _Do I see old needle scars on your arms there?" Again the voice that speaks Spanish. He's alone, and the room he's in doesn't have windows, and he's scared, but he can't let them see it, because if he dies now, he'll never get back to London, never get back to his fri– life.  
"And if I decided that you needed a fix to make you talk? What would you say?"_

Go away, memory. Just go away. Back in your room.

What's more important right now is the wallet.

It's expensive all right. The sort of thing Mycroft would use. Expensive, posh, and rather, though Sherlock would never admit it, because he doesn't care about this sort of thing, elegant.

There's something weirdly familiar about the wallet, but Sherlock can't put his finger on it now, so he flips it open.

Quite a lot of cash, as expected – well, at least he won't go out in the world all alone and without help. Money has opened far more doors in the history of men than kindness or being polite, something he's always tried to teach John.

Other than that, there's pretty much – nothing.

No credit cards, no driving licence, no bills, nothing. So either the thief knew how to cover his tracks and get rid of the most easily detectable pieces of evidence – really, that's far more likely – there's no other explanation – except for – except for –

If the owner, in case the wallet was stolen, wanted no connection to himself, except for fingerprints, but which thief would check for fingerprints, anyway?

It's in moments like this that Sherlock hates his brain.

Because there can't be many people in London who would wish to have their identity protected at all costs, even if it would mean the loss of quite a bit of cash.

Which further means whoever owned the money wouldn't care about the cash.

But about other things.

And, if Sherlock thinks about it, there's only one person who would want to protect his identity at all costs and who has enough money not to care if he lost quite a bit of it. One person who keeps secrets – dangerous, expensive, important secrets – one person who –

But the thought is ridiculous. Sure, the wallet looks familiar to Sherlock, and there is this one person he knows quite well who fits all these criteria, but there would have to be –

Sherlock looks through the wallet again, and this time, tucked against the bank notes, almost hidden, he finds it.

A photograph. An old photograph. A boy, maybe fourteen years old, and another, much younger child, maybe seven years of age. The younger boy is scowling at the camera and already has a mop of unruly dark curls. The older boy is carrying an umbrella...

Him and Mycroft.

The one photograph Mycroft always kept, no matter what happened.

This is Mycroft's wallet.

And there's only one person in the entire city who'd be able to steal Mycroft's wallet and get away with it.

Sherlock Holmes.

The dizziness he's feeling all of a sudden has nothing to do with the detox he's going through, he's sure of it. He has to lean against a wall and try to breathe, very slowly.

If this is Mycroft's wallet, then he's stolen it.

Then he's slept here.

Then he is –

No. He's Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

Unless...

Unless he was suffering from delusions, because that's what drug addiction does to the brain, and –

No. He remembers everything too clearly: even his mind couldn't have invented everything.

He needs to find John. Then everything will become clear.

But first, though he hates to admit it, he needs cocaine.

He finds it in the room-that-was-once-the-kitchen of course, in the cookie jar, he still remembers his favourite hiding places from his time as an addict. In the room with the blanket – he doesn't have any trouble moving now, first downstairs, then upstairs, and soon downstairs again, because his body seems to know that he's going to get a fix, and he loathes the feeling – he finds a needle.

True, it is dirty, and even in his worst times, as far as he remembers, he'd never have considered using it, but right now, he has no other choice, because the withdrawal symptoms have been getting worse and worse and he needs to have his wits together in order to find John.

He plunges the needle in, and almost immediately there's the euphoria he remembers so well, and he hates the drug, he hates the craving, and he hates the euphoria, but there's nothing he can do about it now.

So, high, but at least kind of lucid and not so cold anymore because he has – his – jacket, he opens the door and steps out on the street.

The door slams behind him.

And then, there's only one thought:

He has to find John.


	3. Chapter 3

Once the door closes behind him, he thinks about his situation and realizes finding John might be a little more difficult than he thought.

He has money, at least, and he's in a city he knows, a city whose map he has known by heart ever since he first came to live in it, the city he calls home.

But –

First, of all, he's high. He might not have injected that much cocaine – certainly less than he used to before he quit, mainly because there wasn't much more in the cookie jar – but, in a way, that's also a problem.

The high he can handle. But, soon enough, the withdrawal symptoms will start again; he doesn't think it will take more than two hours at the most. And he isn't sure he'll be able to find John in that time.

And he only has a jacket on, true, an improvement to the way it was before, with only the T-Shirt and jeans, but still – he misses his coat. And the apparently old sneakers aren't exactly appropriate footwear for the weather either.

He also doesn't have his phone with him – though, all things considered, that would probably have been close to a miracle. So he can't look up any newspaper reports, or missing persons.

" _Here, use mine"._

But all of this, it's just ignoring the elephant in the room, and he knows it.

What is going on? Why did he wake up in an abandoned building, apparently a cocaine addict? What happened? How could it happen?

He shakes his head. These questions will have to wait for a time when he isn't high, exhausted, cold and soon-to-be-suffering from withdrawal symptoms; first of all, he has to find John.

But where should he start his search?

The crime scene they were supposed to go? Highly unlikely. Once he had disappeared, John would have come looking for him.

So... did they get him too?

But why leave him drugged in an abandoned building and take John with them? If they wanted to blackmail Sherlock into doing something, they'd have left a note.

But they didn't.

So does that mean John is –

No. Always act like the victim – if John even is a victim, that is – is still alive. It's rule number one in such cases.

So where to?

The Yard?

He doubts they'd be able to help him, even if they wanted to; well, Lestrade would want to, but what could he do? True, he might get some information, but that could probably be summed up with "You and John went missing and we're looking for you."  
But anyone clever enough to kidnap him would be smart enough to cover his tracks too.

And, although that really shouldn't keep from doing anything that might help find his flatmate, he doesn't want the Yarders to see him this way. Donavan and Anderson have never really believed that he actually gave up the drugs to solve crimes, most of the others are either afraid or jealous of him or both, and Lestrade –

" _I'm clean."  
"Is your flat?"_

He doesn't want to disappoint him, as unbelievable as that sounds. He doesn't want Lestrade to see him like this.

Poorly dressed. High. An addict once again.

So, where to?

In the end, it's easy. If you don't know where to start, go back to where it all began.

He'll go to their flat. Maybe John is there. Maybe Mrs. Hudson is there. But there's definitely a phone there, and an internet connection. Something useful.

And he feels safe there. And, right know, that certainly sounds like heaven. Once he's back in their flat, he can figure how what to do next – and how to deal with the withdrawal symptoms.

But, first of all, he has to get there.

He has money, at least – although it is coming from Mycroft, and although it's clear it must be stolen. Because Mycroft would part with his wallet, if he had to, but he'd never let go of that picture. Sherlock doesn't think his brother knows that he's aware he even possesses it. Mycroft probably wouldn't want him to know.

He found out, years ago, while he was detoxing in his brother's mansion, and in a rare lucid moment, he left his room and wandered about the house. He found Mycroft asleep on the sofa, clutching the picture. Which is why he always, even if he never admitted it, trusted his brother. And cared for him, just a little.

Which was probably why it hurt so much when he found out –

_He stares at the newspaper article and realizes, knows, that there's only one person who could have given Moriarty all this information. It's not easy, keeping his expression neutral and not telling John; however, later, much later, he gets told by Mycroft that John actually stormed into the Diogenes club because of it._

No time for that now. Back in the box with the memory.

He doesn't have time either for contemplating how the wallet came to be in his possession. It's stolen, that he knows. And Sherlock himself is the only person in London who could have stolen it, that he knows too.

And, until today, he has hoped – desperately hoped – that he won't ever have to use stolen money to get where he wants again.

_How he abhors it, taking money from the parts of Moriarty's web he has killed or brought behind bars before the police closes their accounts. But he has no other choice. His next target – in Guatemala – has been warned, and he has to get there as quickly as possible –_

But there are more pressing matters at hand.

The high won't last for much longer, and he has to get home.

A cab would be the most desirable option, but he doesn't think he'll get one here – even though John has nicknamed him "the cab-magnet". But maybe, once he gets to the main road –

Much as he abhors walking around in this weather, completely alone.

_The snow is piling up, and it feels like the wind actually takes bites out of him. If he stays out here too long, he'll freeze to death, never mind the coat and the gloves. Of course his target would flee from Belarus to Siberia to escape him, it's just his luck. But if he doesn't find and eliminate him, he'll never get home –_

Main road it is, then.

He's quite thankful no one's around, because he finds it quite difficult to walk in a straight line. He doesn't remember being high being this unpleasant, but then again, he was younger when he used for the last time.

And not so broken by memories he tries to keep in their room rather unsuccessfully.

Once he gets to the main road, things get easier and more complicated at the same time.

Easier, because there are actually cabs around, thank God.

More complicated, because there are also people around, and while he's used to people staring at him, him being a rather tall and eccentric consulting detective, he's not used to them looking at him with disgust in their eyes – as long as they don't know him, at least. Once they do, he isn't bothered by it. But the way complete strangers now cross the street just so they don't have to walk next to him –

As if his day wasn't difficult enough already.

The first three cabs won't take him. He shouldn't be surprised really; while some cab drivers won't do drunks, almost all of them won't do druggies.

Especially high ones.

However, when he manages to show the fourth cabbie just how much money he has and promises to pay him twice the usual amount, he finally gets to enter the cab and drive home. True, the cabbie still shoots him suspicious looks – after all, he could still carry a knife or something like that and try to rob him when he carries that much cash around with him, idiot – but he brings him to Baker Street.

Sherlock looks out the window the entire ride. Something's troubling him.

It's still the London he knows, but something's amiss. He can't put a finger on it; it's like looking at an old photograph and not realizing what's troubling you, until you realize that the colours have slightly faded. But he'll find out soon enough, he's sure. Or hopes he's sure.

By a watch that's hanging outside a supermarket, he learns that it's nine o' clock in the morning. So he's missing at least eighteen hours. He chooses not to speculate what they could have done to John in that time. It's dangerous to speculate without data, after all.

" _You should have known better" the woman says, in English but with a rather heavy Austrian accent, "than to try to beat me. To think you could just gather enough to bring me in jail – well, I would say tell everyone about it, but I'm afraid you won't be able to." She squeezes the trigger._  
Luckily, the pistol jams and he manages to escape.  
Three days later, the woman is arrested, because he found enough evidence to prove she's responsible for quite a lot of the forgeries of Renaissance painters that have been around lately.

This time, the cab stopping saves him from his memory. He wishes he could delete them, but deleting memories is almost impossible and could be quite dangerous; he doesn't know how his mind would react, what it would make up to fill the blanks. So he shoves them back into their room. Like now.

"There we are, mate" the cabbie says, still not friendly or politely, but at least he's taken him where he wants to be. So he gives him the unbelievably huge fare and gets out with a "Thank you, goodbye". And, to the cabbies credit, he actually looks back while turning and driving off, to make sure Sherlock got safely off the street, at least, although Sherlock doesn't see it, because he's staring at the front door of 221B.

He frowns. The front door, the whole front of the house, really, normally so well kept –

The colour's peeling off. There are no curtains in any window. And, since because of the lack of curtains he can see into Mrs. Hudson's living room, he can tell that it is in a similar deplorable state, although he still recognizes the hand of his housek– landlady in the way a few flowers stand on the table, or the room has clearly just been dusted.

But what are the empty bottles doing on the sofa?

The house is a mess, he can see it from the outside. It's a disgrace to Baker Street.

It breaks the heart he finally had to admit he possesses, three years ago, when he stood on a rooftop looking down at John.

But all of that – he has to knock. Mrs. Hudson must be there; she doesn't go to the shops before ten o' clock, she enjoys her morning tea while listening to the radio.

So he knocks.

The steps he hears should have been a warning, maybe; they are much, much too heavy for his dear Mrs. Hudson.

But that thought does nothing to help with the shock when the door opens and he finds himself standing in front of _Mr. Hudson_.

The man whose execution he ensured more than ten years ago.

Who's clearly still as much an alcoholic and abusive husband as he was then.

And in London.

Alive.

He looks him up and down and then asks, with a sneer, "What d'you want, druggie?"

It takes Sherlock a few moments to find words, but then he asks, much more timidly than he wanted, "Can I speak to Mrs. Hudson, please?"

"Mrs? You here to talk to me wife, eh?" Then he shouts, in a much too loud voice, really, the whole street can probably hear him, "Come here, got another lost cause for ya!"

He hears Mrs. Hudson shuffle into the hallway, and then he sees her, and –

There are bruises on her arms, and she doesn't try to hide them, like she did when they met. She's also not impeccably dressed, as usual; rather, she's wearing a house gown that has clearly seen better days. She doesn't wear any makeup, and her hair is in disarray.

But worst of all are her lifeless eyes.

This is a woman that has given up and has nowhere to go.

And it's clear that she doesn't recognize Sherlock.

But, because she still is Mrs. Hudson, her voice does have a tone of pity when she asks, "What is it, dear?"

He stutters. "Mrs. Hudson, it's me, Sherlock, John's missing, I need your help, please – "

She shakes her head. "I'm awfully sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anyone named John, and I'd certainly remember your – what was your name again? I'm afraid my hearing isn't quite what it used to be – "

Sherlock opens his mouth, to explain, to beg, he's not sure, but he doesn't even get the chance to say a word before Mr. Hudson exclaims "There, ya see, she doesn't know ya. So get lost. Or fin' another needle or something". He slams the door.

And Sherlock's standing in front of the one place he called home, shivering, slowly coming off the high.

Alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock is still staring at the door, it could be hours, it could be minutes, later, thoughts swirling through his mind even too quick for him to follow, when another violent shiver reminds him that he needs to get out of the cold very soon.

Before long, hypothermia is going to set in. As well as frostbite; he doesn't trust the pockets of this flimsy sort-of-green jacket to protect his fingers for much longer; he can barely feel them. At least the warm cab gave him a few extra-minutes, if nothing else.

And, if the high continues to disappear this quickly, he's going to need – he shudders again, but this time, it has nothing to do with the cold – another fix.

So, all of this considered, he's going to try and save himself before dealing with whatever just happened. If he has learned something from being dead, it's that you make sure you can deal with things at a later date when your life is in danger, rather than dealing with them immediately.

_He curses as he tries to stop the blood flow from his shoulder. But, all in all, it could be worse. At least no major artery seems to be injured, and he can still move his arm. Though he could certainly do without the sniper who is waiting for him to leave his hideout and who can actually shoot quite well, going by his shoulder._

But where can he go? His home – well, his home isn't his home, that much is clear.

Mycroft? But Mycroft is not going to let him investigate, he knows it. Mycroft is going to lock him up and force him into detox and probably send a few of his men out looking for John, when it's clear that only Sherlock can find him.

So no John, no Mrs. Hudson, no Mycroft, no Yard.

That leaves him with one option.

Lestrade.

Well, he can get another cab – he still has enough of Mycroft's money. Lestrade might be at the Yard now, but he's always been good at picking locks, so that shouldn't be a problem. And he knows the DI won't say anything against it, most likely; he's done this so often in the past ten years he's known him, at every address the DI happened to live, once he even gave his now ex-wife the shock of her life, that Lestrade eventually gave him a key, which, sadly, is in the flat. The flat how he remembers it, at least. But he doesn't think it would be of much use to knock again and ask politely if he could take a look around for a few minutes. And he's in no condition to fight.

But he's still really cold, so he sets out to look for a cab.

And then he realizes something else.

It's irrational, he knows, but considering what just happened –

What if Lestrade isn't living where he's supposed to be living?

Well, better safe than sorry, at any rate. That's what the internet is for.

Luckily, the internet café in Baker Street is still where it's supposed to be – he wouldn't be surprised if it turned out a Bistro, after the last few hours – and the French student who's clearly trying to work his way through university and whose girlfriend is cheating on him, though he doesn't know, doesn't care much about the café and lets him use one of the computers without a second glance. Which can't really be said for the other customers, but he has more important things to concentrate on.

He sees the date on the computer screen.

So it _was_ just yesterday afternoon when he left the flat with John. How could all this happen in the space of less than twenty-four hours? He shakes himself. First of all, he has to find Lestrade. Or rather check that he's where he is supposed to be.

He quickly opens the phone book and types in Lestrade's name, though he knows it's a long shot – the DI has had his address protected for years, so it's not likely to show up through a simple –

DI Gregory Lestrade's name and address appear and Sherlock frowns.

That's not the same address the DI moved to when he and his wife separated; that's not even the same neighbourhood.

It's a rather run-down neighbourhood, in fact. Not as bad as the neighbourhood Sherlock woke up in this morning, but still. Why would Lestrade move? And why move there? There are certainly nicer places he could go, if he wanted to. But he was rather happy in the flat, as far as Sherlock could gather.

But the DI is in London, at least. He's still here and he's alive and not kidnapped and, at the moment, that's more than Sherlock hoped for. So he just shrugs his shoulders, remembers the address – and really, it could be a nice apartment block in a rather not so nice neighbourhood, who knows? – and, because the other customers keep giving him strange glances and he got what he came for, he leaves.

This time, he gets a cab almost instantly. The driver seems to take pity on him, doesn't even react to the fact he offers him twice the usual fare; he just tells him "It's alright, I'll take you anyway" and doesn't seem surprised when he tells him the address.

Which is a rather not good sign for Lestrade's new neighbourhood, all things considered.

But the cab is warm, and that's good, because by now the withdrawal symptoms start to set in – again – and he can feel the coke bugs making their way all across his skin and his head starts to hurt and the craving, which he hates more than everything else, really, he could easily handle the other withdrawal symptoms, but please, stop the craving, comes back and –

Wait. Wait. The cab stops at a light and he knows the building he's currently looking at.

It's right across from Northumberland Terrace.

It's where Angelo's restaurant is.

Or _should_ be.

Because where he and John had countless dinners for free (despite John's efforts now and then to pay just half of their bill, Angelo refused him every time – after bringing a candle for the table), there appears to be a –laundrette?

In his renewed confusion, he asks the driver. "Sorry, do you know what happened to the Italian restaurant that used to be here?"

"Italian restaurant?" The driver shoots him a like through the rear view window, but doesn't seem scared or worried, and that's something today. "Sorry, but I don't think there ever was one here. I mean, there have been several businesses at that address in the course of the last few years – none of them made it, sadly. I don't believe one of them was an Italian restaurant, though."

Sherlock could throw a tantrum or try to explain, but the cabbie is the first person who was nice or even polite to him today, so he simply thanks him and adds quietly "I must have been mistaken".

Only he wasn't. He could tell him all about Angelo, if he wanted to, how he cleared his name – a bit, but still, he cleared it of a murder charge – and how good the ex-convict's lasagne tastes. If he decides to eat.

He's hungry too, he decides there and then, because his stomach decides to use this moment to remind him it's still there and growls. When was the last time he ate? That last evening with John, at the flat – takeaway Chinese. Was that really yesterday?

Time to get to Lestrade. The DI has never let him down, he made him the offer to work for the police, he gave him cases, he made sure he stayed of drugs before John came along, and once that army doctor had, he still dropped in occasionally and never said anything when he found Sherlock in his own flat, once again, he came to Baskerville just to look after him, even tried to warn him when he had to arrest him. And, if his memory serves correctly, he wasn't particularly keen on finding him and his flatmate once they'd escaped.

Even Moriarty knew Sherlock considers Lestrade once of his few friends, even though he doubts that he knows himself that he means something to Sherlock.

" _Everyone".  
"Lestrade"._

" _That's his name"._

All of a sudden, Sherlock's rather glad he decided to store the DI's first name in his mind palace after the Baskerville case. Yes, Lestrade will help him: he always does.

" _You never bothered to find out"._

The rest of the ride is spend in silence, and it's a rather long and expensive ride, even without the special fare, but at least the danger of hypothermia is sinking by the minute. He's almost stopped shivering by the time the cab stops.

He thanks the cabbie after he pays him – really, John would be proud. He doesn't think he's been this polite in the space of a few short hours in a very long time. Then again, he also hasn't been suffering from withdrawal symptoms in a very long time.

The cabbie only takes the money he's supposed to take, declines the rest, gives Sherlock a sympathetic look and wishes him "Good morning". It's not much, but it's something.

"Though I seriously doubt his wish is going to come true" Sherlock mutters to himself as he looks up at Lestrade's new apartment building.

Or, rather, Lestrade's old, run-down, suspicious-shade-lurking-around-the-corner-that-is -sure-to-be-a-drug-dealer building.

It's not a place he can picture his DI, to be honest. But the phone book told him so, and he's starting to feel cold again, so there's no time to lose.

But first, although he really doesn't want to, he goes to the suspicious shade lurking around the corner and buys enough cocaine to last a few hours, in his current condition, he thinks. The suspicious shade even has needles packed in plastic. Which is a great relief to Sherlock, who really doesn't want to use the dirty one he found in the kitchen this morning. He nods, leaves the suspicious shade and searches a nearby bin until he finds a small piece of wire, perfect for his purposes. He checks to make sure the shade isn't looking what he's doing, but it has disappeared around the corner. One thing less to worry about.

He picks the lock of the building and looks at the post box in the room that would probably be called an "entrance hall" if it was in a nicer building and if it wasn't that cold and dirty and wet and smelling of urine, to find Lestrade's door.

He lives on the fourth floor, and there is no lift. Of course.

He climbs the stairs slowly, holding on to the railing, slowly getting dizzy, the craving getting stronger by the minute. At last, he stands in front of a door. And there is a name tag that says "Lestrade", definitely in the scrawl of the detective, though his hand must have shaken when he wrote it.

Doesn't matter. He picks the lock and lets himself in.

The flat doesn't look much better than the building. It's warm, and that's something, but the place is a mess. There are quite a lot of beer and whiskey bottles – Good God, he mustn't have cleaned the flat in ages. The sofa isn't the comfortable one Sherlock remembers; instead, it looks like it was picked right out of a rubbish dump. Aside from this grey atrocity, there's not much to look at, except for a TV set and a desk that's cluttered with papers and empty cigarette packages – the DI quit, didn't he, years ago? – even the walls are bare, apart from a rather ugly clock, and that's weird, considering Lestrade loves his photographs – the last time Sherlock was in his... other flat, one wall of his living room was full of photos, there were even some of Sherlock and John. Well, actually most of them were pictures of their "family" as Mrs. Hudson – _his_ Mrs. Hudson – likes to call it.

But then he feels the dizziness and the pain again and, much as he hates shooting up in Lestrade's flat, he fears he doesn't have much of a choice.

He hears the tingling he knows so well when he inserts the needle and presses the plunger, and bits his lip when he feels the euphoria coming on. He doesn't want it, doesn't want this, but he needs to keep his head as clear as he can.

By the time he has finished with the drug, at least, he can take off the jacket and has stopped shivering.

He actually meant to spend the time until Lestrade's return thinking the situation over, but the exhaustion finally catches up with him and his eyes close against his will.

He wakes up when a key is inserted in the lock of the flat, and heaves a relieved sigh. Thank God. But, then, he frowns.

According to the clock it's half past eleven, and it's still daylight that's coming through the window, so why would Lestrade already be home?

He gets the answer when the DI enters, or rather stumbles, in his apartment, and for the first time since –

_The man has a family, Sherlock can tell immediately, but he needs to be annihilated if Sherlock wants to return home. He shoots. The man falls. Sherlock runs and refuses to look back. He checks later in the local newspapers and tries to ignore the line "leaves a wife and two small children behind". He can't allow himself to care about that._

Well, for the first time in a long time, he curses his deduction skills as he looks at his friend who's staring dumbly and without recognition at him while he's trying to hold himself up.

_Still a DI, but spends more time in the pub than at work, where he's clearly been the last couple of hours. Didn't end things with his wife – she kicked him out, a very long time ago. Has been on a steady downward spiral for years. This must be at least his fifth apartment in the last decade._

Lestrade than attempts to say something, which Sherlock interprets as being close to "What are you doing in my apartment?", though he slides down the wall after slurring it, and starts snoring.

Great. But he is Lestrade, and he's his friend, so Sherlock – maybe it was a good idea to shoot up, after all, at least he has the strength to do it – puts him on the sofa and gets a blanket from the bedroom that doesn't look much better than the living room and covers him up. He also finds a chair in the bedroom, so at least he has something to sit on.

He gets himself another blanket – it's warm, but he wants to make sure no risk whatsoever of hypothermia remains – and decides to look in the kitchen while he waits for his friend to wake up.

He has eggs, and toast, and jam, so Sherlock can make them both breakfast, at least. That and... about twenty bottles of beer. Sherlock's heart contracts.

"Oh, Greg" he sighs, then he starts preparing breakfast. Might as well do something productive for the DI while he tries to make sense of the situation.

He's so busy, he doesn't even realize he just called the DI by his first name for the very first time.


	5. Chapter 5

While he makes breakfast, Sherlock tries to think logically. Which, admittedly, is quite difficult when your landlady is the abused wife of a man who should have died more than a decade ago, one of your friends who's never been drunk as far as you know has just passed out in a stupor in front of you, your best friend/flatmate just happens to have disappeared, and you're high standing in the kitchen of your drunk friend trying to make breakfast with whatever he happens to have in there, besides alcohol.

Just as Sherlock is trying to cook the eggs –

**His head aches, and he's in a room with a white ceiling, and a short man with blond hair is looking at him worriedly and asking "Sherlock?" and –**

But then he's back in Lestrade's kitchen, and he shakes his head and decides he's going to think about why he suddenly saw John later.

Or, no – he's going to deal with it now, because maybe, just maybe, he might manage to make some sense of what happened today.

Yesterday afternoon, he left the flat with John. Of that he is certain.

And then...

He woke up somewhat before nine o'clock today, probably around seven, as it took him a lot of time to search the house and get out.

He woke up in a world where he's an addict, Mrs. Hudson doesn't recognize him and lives with the abusive husband that should have been executed, and Lestrade is an alcoholic. And John is still missing.

Well, apart from the hallucination he just had, that is.

So, what is going on?

There are several possibilities.

He could be hallucinating. But when has a hallucination ever been this real? And when has it ever made so much sense? And this whole... world feels much too real. He can feel everything, the needle marks, the warmth that by now has saved him from hypothermia, the withdrawal symptoms, the rush of the drugs.

He could be in a coma. Again, everything feels so real. Much too real.

This could all be a dream... But he can remember everything that's happened since he woke up today, there haven't been any weird changes of time or scenery and he even fell asleep not long ago. It doesn't seem very probable, all things considered.

He could have gone mad. But he hasn't shown any symptoms of – may it be schizophrenia or paranoia or something else, before. John wouldn't have missed it. He's a doctor, after all. You don't leave your flat, go mad and suddenly find yourself in a different universe, all of a sudden.  
But, then, if that isn't true, why would he see John and feel himself lying in a room with a white ceiling? But, then, he _is_ high at the moment, so...  
And, anyway, if he's mad, he'll never make sense of anything that's happened today, and he needs his world to make sense, has always needed his world to make sense. He's lost if his world doesn't make sense. So he chooses to ignore the madness theory, if only for that reason. Then he thinks of the words he just used to describe this experience.

Different universe... Could that be? Could he suddenly have landed in a parallel universe, where... Sherlock shakes his head. Must be the drugs. It's highly unlikely.

But he won't come any farther until Lestrade wakes up, and they try to make sense of this together. True, there's this fear in him that the DI won't recognize him, just like Mrs. Hudson, but, in a way, they have grown quite close since his return, and a sentimental part of him refuses to believe that Lestrade could simply forget all of this – the cases, Sherlock's fall, Sherlock's death, his return. The DI is an important part of his past, whether he believes it or not.

True, he would like to have more than eggs and jam and toast to make breakfast with, but he's had worse things to eat in three years he spent dead.

_He's pretty sure there's mildew on the plate he just put the old bread on, but he has to keep it somewhere while he eats, and if he doesn't eat, he just might starve after all, like John always said he would._

Luckily, Lestrade wakes up at this moment, judging from the groaning that's coming from the living room. Sherlock thinks he has been asleep about an hour, but he'll see once he brings the DI his breakfast. He piles the eggs and the toast and the jam on the only clean plate he can find – the others are stapled in the sink, and he'd rather not know for how long, though it would probably make an interesting experiment – and goes to his friend.

The DI is still far from sober, but at least he's conscious and able to take in his surroundings. He looks at Sherlock strangely.

"I... know... you..." he finally manages to croak out, and Sherlock is maybe more happy about that than he should be, as he places the plate in front of him, or rather next to him on the sofa, as the closest table in side happens to be the desk in one corner of the room, and he doesn't want to watch Lestrade trying to stand up. Maybe now they can work something out. Maybe now this nightmare will end. He's almost tempted to say "Well done, Inspector".

However, all his hopes are dashed when his friend exclaims "You are that addict that stumbled on my crime scene a few years back... did talk a lot, but didn't make a whole lot of sense. Whatever are you doing in my flat?"

There are a lot of things Sherlock could say right now. He could even leave without a word if he wanted to. The DI is in no condition to stop him. But, instead, all he's gone through today finally catches up with him – the drugs, the cold, John missing, Mrs. Hudson not recognizing him. This is the final straw.

"So, you call this a flat, Greg?" he asks, hotly, "Because I would rather call this a dump. Really, when did you decide that living like a human being was to chic for you? And what happened to the photos?"

Lestrade, in his drunk state, obviously tries to make sense of all this, but ultimately fails. "Greg..." he finally answers. "Not a lot of people call me that, these days. Not since the wife threw me out. She was the last one".

A wave of pity he's quite unprepared for makes Sherlock's heart clench, and he takes a deep breath.

"Get yourself, together, will you? We need to talk... try to eat something, it will sober you up."

And then, finally, Sherlock sees something of the Lestrade – Greg – he knows, because the DI looks him up and down and says "I will, if you will. You look so thin, I should be able to arrest you for that."

They eat in silence, for almost half an hour, and Sherlock is very grateful for the food indeed, which John would probably snigger at. Will snigger at. Once he finds him.

After the meal, Lestrade seems to be sobered up enough to talk. Although it's still quite clear that he doesn't care that a "druggie" is currently sitting in his flat. Does he really care so little about his life?

"Thanks for that, anyway. So what are you doing here..." He pauses for a moment and it gives Sherlock a stab to know what he's searching for. "Sherlock" he helps out, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, good then, I'll stick to the first name since you know mine, Sherlock – what are you doing in my flat? How did you get in, by the way?"

"I picked the lock" Sherlock admits, because he's sure Greg won't arrest him. The man doesn't seem to be capable of caring about anything at the moment, and breaking and entering was never one of the things he took a particular interest in – otherwise Angelo would have been prosecuted far more severely, all those years ago.

"Well, aren't you an honest junkie" Greg chuckles, but his eyes remain empty.

"Seeing as "junkie" is most commonly applied to heroin addicts, and I'm addicted to cocaine, I think I'm more of an honest crackhead" Sherlock shoots back, and suddenly, there's something like the old light in Greg's eyes as he laughs.

"All I know is that I arrested you a few years back because you stumbled onto my crime scene, let you go after it was proven you were innocent, and I never saw you again, and suddenly you're sitting in my flat, but I don't think I've eaten or laughed that much in years, so you're welcome to stay. And if you should decide to kill me in my sleep – well, at least it'll all be over, right?"

Sherlock winces at that, and the next thing to come out of his mouth is "Have you really given up?"

"What do you expect me to do, mate? Wife gone, and I haven't cared about my job for years now – too many we didn't catch. And it's not like I have any close friends."

The knowledge that Greg turned into this because he was frustrated they didn't catch enough criminals proves almost too much for Sherlock, but he manages not to shudder. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure" Greg answers, eying the bottles lying around, and Sherlock has the sinking feeling that even if he can convince him of the truth, it's going to be difficult to keep him away from the next bar.

"So – we met once, right? You arrested me, I was innocent, you let me go. That was it? You never offered me to work with you?"

Greg looks at him dumbly "Why would I offer a jun- a crackhead to work with me?"

Sherlock tells him everything he deduced about him the minute he walked through the door, and he blinks slowly.

"Okay, if you had acted like this, maybe I would have. But you didn't. You were way too high to say anything but your name, really."

Another thought finds his way into Sherlock's mind. "When was this – exactly?"

Greg frowns. "About... five years ago? Yeah, must have been. Divorce had just been finalized, though she kicked me out another three years before that..."

But Sherlock isn't listening to the DI's rambling about his ex-wife. So, Mrs. Hudson doesn't know him, which probably means he never met her, in this scenario. And he only met DI Lestrade in passing, about five years ago, when he should have been working with him for five years already.

And when he should have just have met...

"Which case?" he interrupts Greg. "On which crime scene did you arrest me?"

Greg tries to think. "Ahem, suspicious suicides? Yeah, that was it... Seven suspicious suicides in one year, all took the same poison, all found in a place they had no reason to be. Never found out what happened, though".

So, Jeff Hope was never caught. So Sherlock never knew about Moriarty.

Which means Moriarty might be...

"You alright, mate? You look a bit pale all of a sudden."

"I'm fine" Sherlock snaps. "At least I'm still high and not looking for the next fix."

Greg laughs a bitter laugh at that. "Well, that's how it goes, I guess." But then he looks at Sherlock, really looks at him, and it seems like he has a déjà vue of some sorts, because there's a sort of recognition in his eyes, but then it's gone and he shakes his head. "Sorry about that. Now, what did I want – Right. You haven't told me yet why you're here."

So that's it then. No more stalling. Either Greg will believe him, or he'll chase him out of the flat, and he'll most likely freeze to death.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and begins to explain.


	6. Chapter 6

To his credit, Greg listens to Sherlock's rather confused explanation (it's not easy explaining something you yourself aren't even close at comprehending) with all the patience he can muster.

Sherlock has just arrived at the first case with John, the strange serial suicides, the case on which the Inspector claims he saw Sherlock for the first and last time, when Greg raises his right hand.

"All right. Stop there. I've listened for as long as I can without going to the fridge, but right now, I need a drink more than anything."

Sherlock frowns, but he's really in no position to tell Greg off because of his drinking, when he can still feel the cocaine coursing through his veins. So he just nods, and the DI stumbles – he's still not sober, of course not, nobody could be when he'd just stumbled, like he did, into the flat an hour ago – to the kitchen, and Sherlock can hear him grabbing a beer and, while he knows it's irrational, the sound the bottle makes when opened almost physically hurts him. Whatever happened to his DI? He knows some of it, but he needs more data.

But that can wait. First of all, he needs to finish his story. Their story, the story Greg doesn't remember, because he has apparently never lived it.

This is all so confusing, and Sherlock tries to pretend Greg's incomprehension doesn't hurt him as much as it does.

The DI lets himself fall on the sofa and takes a big gulp of the beer bottle – enough to drink half of it in one go. No wonder he keeps that many bottles in his fridge and frequents a pub regardless. Just how much does he drink on a normal day?

Greg sighs contentedly and then eyes Sherlock. "So, let me get this straight. Just to be on the safe side. It's rather complicated, you know". He takes a deep breath. "So, you are a..." he searches for the right word.

"Consulting detective" Sherlock helps out and tries to ignore the stab in his heart he fells because Greg can't remember a term he actually helped coin in the first place.

"Right – consulting detective. And you help out the police, and with "police" I mean mostly me." The DI runs his fingers through his rather unkempt hair. "And we met, not five years ago, as I remember it, but something close to ten years ago."

"Correct".

"Though you did stumble on my crime scene, and got arrested for it. And you were an addict even then."

"Yes, but yesterday I wasn't, and we were rather..." Sherlock hesitates. How can he say "friends", when he doubts that even normal Greg knows how much he means to him? "We knew each other quite well."

Greg shoots him a look at that, while taking another sip of his beer, a look Sherlock remembers quite well. John used to give him that look now and then. He rolls his eyes. "Not like that. You are straight, I am asexual. We were useful to one another."

But, as it turns out, an alcoholic DI Greg Lestrade is still more intelligent than most people on the planet. "Good, and because we were only acquaintances who didn't mean much to each other you come to my flat to shoot up" – Sherlock winces – "I might be a drunkard, but do you really think I don't see the needle sticking out of your pocket? And, by the state you are in, you must have had a fix pretty recently, so it's only logical you had a bit of fun before I arrived. And, again, because we meant nothing to each other, you pick me up, carry me to the sofa and make me breakfast. Right. I'm very sure, I'm convinced we were merely "useful" to each other." He smiles, a sort of half-smile, but still, it's a smile, and until now, he's only loved in a semi-bitter way, so Sherlock considers this and improvement. And, because he's rather relieved and ashamed at the same time, if that is possible, he says "I... we were friends, Greg."

Greg actually chuckles at that, and for the first time today, it sounds kind of merry. "Well, like I said – I don't have friend, and nobody calls me Greg, anymore, so... I guess one is better than nothing, though you are a crack head, Sherlock". "Well, yes, seems like I am... in this universe."

Greg looks at him. "You _are_ crazy, you know that, right?" "I think several people in the past have told me exactly the same thing, though I can't say for certain that it was _this_ past".

They look at each other.

Silence reigns for a few moments.

And then they are _laughing_ , actually laughing, without any bitterness, just laughing, and Sherlock can fell a bind being formed. Of course, it's nothing like the old bond he and – Greg shared, but it's a beginning. It's the beginning for making sense of this mess he's somehow woken up to this morning.

"So, again, just to make sure", Greg gasps, "You and I, we are a crime-fighting team in a kind of other universe, and here, we are a drunkard and a crack head but we're still the best around, even though I'm divorced and pretty much almost suspended because I spend way too many days on sick leave in order to get drunk and you can't stay away from cocaine for two hours straight?"

"Yes, that sums it up quite well, I think" Sherlock replies, also trying to get his breath back.

Then Greg suddenly seems to think of something.

"Didn't you just say there's another member in our team of misfits? And that you solved the serial suicides case?"

"Yes, there was. And yes, I did. His name is John Watson." Then Sherlock realizes he should probably explain the context a bit better."The name of our "third member", as you put it. Not of the killer. The killer's name was Jeff Hope, and he was a cabbie, though I suspect he's longs since passed on because of his aneurism, at this point." He decides not to mention Moriarty, for the time being. That is a conversation for a time when they are both – well, not quite, but almost sober, and they're far from it at present.

"I understand... Okay, actually I don't understand a thing, but still, I haven't had that much fun or talked to another human being for that long in _ages_ so I don't care" the DI answers, wiping his eyes.

Then he grows serious, or a serious as this version of Greg can be, apparently. "So... since you tracked me down, I suppose you'll want to find this John Watson, now?"

Something like hope fills Sherlock's jest. "Yes, that's the plan."

"And he's an army doctor – sorry, ex-army doctor, talk about over-achiever – and your best friend and flatmate and – ?"

"Nothing else."

"Right, sorry, asexual. Good. So – wait, if you found me – how did you find me, by the way?"

"Internet. Phone book."

"How silly of me, of course, didn't care enough to have me address protected, but, anyway, if you found me, you can find him, so – why didn't you go to him first?"

Sherlock almost, but not quite, rolls his eyes at the DI. "Because he can't be in our flat, because our landlady doesn't remember me, so she never met John. Obviously."

Greg takes another swig from the bottle. "Sorry, completely obvious. Of course. So, what do you propose we do to find this... guardian angel of consulting detectives?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the comment – not because of the way Greg just talked about John, but about the _we_. This version of Lestrade seems to trust him very fast, and it's been a while since someone trusted him like this, and it wasn't for the best of them.

" _Can you help me find my daddy?" the little girl asks in French, and Sherlock knows he can't very well tell her that he just put her father in a police car and that she probably won't see him again until she's an adult. So he just takes her hand and guides her to a woman from social services."_

"Hey, don't get lost in your head on me, mate. I'm just beginning to enjoy this" Greg complains and shoves him with his beer bottle. Sherlock looks at him.

"Why do you trust me? Why do you want to help me?"

"You make a good breakfast, and you don't say anything about me drinking beer at this time of day, and that's good enough for me."

Sherlock's eyes soften. "Greg, why did you start?"

He actually seems to think about his question. "Nobody's ever asked me that before. It was just easier, I suppose. You know, after a hard day, when the bad guys didn't let me catch them, once again, I would just grab a drink and it would disappear, you understand? And, then, slowly, it became more than one drink, and then the wife kicked me out, and Donavan and Anderson like it better to have the crime scenes for themselves, anyway, so why bother? And there's always a new bottle..." his eyes turn dark. "Alcohol doesn't disappoint you, at least. Not like men do." Then he shakes himself, and resumes his air of rather sharp-witted indifference. "But that's not important right now. So, you want ... us to find this ex-army doctor, who's most likely been kidnapped, in this city."

"Yes".

"And then everything's to be alright, as if by magic, and you'll be a clean "consulting detective" and this John will be your live-in flatmate and I'll be the Yard's golden boy."

"Something like it." It's easier to let this Greg talk, Sherlock decides; he usually comes to the right decision, just like the DI he remembers, he just has to ramble while he tries to figure it out. Well, it's not much more annoying than any other quirks of normal human beings.

"Okay..." Greg clicks his tongue. "So, this should be easy. Find a kidnap victim, save him, break the curse or whatever, so we two aren't addicts anymore, and all while trying to keep you high and me drunk enough to function. Don't see any problem at all with that plan."

Sherlock has about enough of this callous view of something very important, so he snaps "I'm glad you don't" which earns him another chuckle,"And now, listen. I have to go to my brother – "

He can't do this without Mycroft's help, he knows it now, although the thought still unnerves him. At least their relationship has got slightly better since he returned from the dead. But still...

No. No time to let this childish feud get between him and John's rescue.

"So, you have a brother? There's two of you? God help us."

"Yes. Mycroft. He's my senior by seven years, and he is the British Government."

"You mean, he works for the Prime Minister or something?"

"No, I mean he _is_ the British Government. And the Secret Service. And the CIA. He controls everything, if you want me to put it this bluntly."

"Fine by me." Greg raises the bottle, that by now must be almost empty, to a mock-salute. "Well, at least the monotony of my life has successfully been killed off. That makes me kind of happy. Or as close to happy as I've been these last few years. So, where do we find him?"

That's easy. Even if Greg is an alcoholic living in an awful flat, even if Mrs. Hudson doesn't recognize him, even if John is nowhere to be found, Mycroft would never, in no reality, move out of his beloved mansion. Sherlock will just have to break in and wait for him, like he just did. "I have a pretty clear idea where he is going to be, and it's not _we_ , it's _I_. Mycroft doesn't appreciate... " He thinks quickly, if he never knew Lestrade, Mycroft didn't either, "strangers. You stay here." Greg's face falls, but only slightly, in an accepting way, a way that tells Sherlock he's used to be left behind, and he doesn't like that at all. "I'll get you, don't worry. I'll come back and get you, in a few hours at the most. You just stay here and try not to drink yourself into a stupor. I will come back. I promise."

"Why would I believe you?" Greg asks bitterly.

"Because you need me."

The alcoholic DI shoots him a glance. "So I do. God help me." Then he laughs. "I've known you for about... two hours, in this universe at least, but I do need you. I don't know why, I just do. But, okay. I will wait for you. But you'll have to do something for me first."

"What is it?" Sherlock asks, genuinely curious.

"You'll take a shower and you'll wash your hair and you'll put on some of my clothes and gloves and a coat and a scarf– they won't find you perfectly, of course, but at least you'll be warm."

Sherlock actually has to blink away tears at that, because the raw _caring_ he hears in Greg's voice might just be too much for him.

"Okay."

So he does what the DI told him to do – he'll make sure never to mention it again, once everything's gone back to normal – and he does fell better after the shower and his hair is clean and he's actually kind of dresses, though he's still high.

He accepts the coat, the gloves and the scarf the DI gives him as soon as he emerges from the bathroom and leaves without a word. Well, almost.

He turns around once, before he closes the door behind him, and says softly "Thanks".

Greg looks at him. "No, mate, thank _you_."

And, once Sherlock has closed the door and is on the way to find his brother, he adds, slowly, quietly, "for reminding me I'm still alive."

And just that is enough, he knows, even as he takes another bottle out of the fridge, to make sure he waits for Sherlock, or, if anything happens to keep him from returning, to come looking for him.


	7. Chapter 7

When he steps out of the apartment block, he realizes he still has no way to communicate... aside from talking, that is. He has to get a phone as quickly as he can. It won't be difficult to find out Greg's number, if it is as well protected as his address, and Sherlock doesn't doubt the fact. Well, Mycroft will certainly have a clean phone; he always keeps spares, with him being the British Government.

At least he's found an ally. Or as close to an ally as you can, under these circumstances. While it was... good, having someone believe him, having someone care enough to help him, he is sure Greg will get drunk or stay drunk whenever he can and won't be much help. He will come back, that he knows; he just doesn't know _when_ , so technically, it wasn't a lie. And he's rather certain that the hours blend together for his DI anyway, so he shouldn't fell as bad about it as he does.

Suddenly his head hurts, tremendously, and it shouldn't because he doesn't have a head injury and he's still high, so there shouldn't be any withdrawal symptoms for at least another hour...

**He's lying in the room with the white ceiling again, and this time, there is no sign of the blond short man, but there is someone who looks vaguely familiar, concern written all over his face, and he hears his name spoken, and...**

Sherlock's kneeling on the pavement, breathing heavily, even more confused than before, if that's possible, but relieved when the headache slowly subsides. He doesn't know what these hallucinations mean, or why he just saw Lestrade – his version – in the room. And he hasn't yet had enough time in the room to find out where it is, and what is going on.

He shakes his head. If he keeps thinking about questions he can't find any answers for – yet – he'll never get to Mycroft before the cocaine leaves his bloodstream, and if there is one thing he doesn't wants less than showing up at his brother's house asking for help at all, then it's showing up at his brother's house asking for help high, and therefore giving Mycroft a reason for refusing to help him.

He pretends the thought that, in this world, this reality, where everything's wrong, he might have already have given him plenty of reasons for a refusal. The thought is absurd. Mycroft has always helped him, Sherlock has always openly resented him, and sometimes, been secretly thankful for it. That's the way it is. The only time Mycroft didn't help him was a time when he thought his little brother was dead, so Sherlock can't hold that against him.

 _It's in times like these, when he only holds a burn phone without an internet connection in his hand, that Sherlock actually misses his annoying brother. Not that he would ever admit it, of course; he just would like to call him to get all the information he needs on the crime syndicate of the week within an hour. He certainly doesn't miss the way Mycroft made him take cases, or how he would just show up in their flat to "see how they were doing". Or how he'd offer him a cigarette to check if he'd had a hard day; when Sherlock took it, the answer was yes._  
He also misses his violin, but that he's thinking of it right now is merely an association, because Mycroft gave it to him on his sixteenth birthday. Again, he isn't thankful, of course not. But the violin has always been useful to him, helped him keep his dark moods at bay. And, if that didn't work, he could always annoy Mycroft.  
Now both of that is gone, and he won't admit he misses any of it. Well, maybe he will admit he misses his violin and his phone.  
And, in his worst moments, when he's all alone and he can feel the darkness slowly seeping into his soul, he might just admit he misses his brother's usefulness.  
And, if he cries a few tears while thinking that, he'll ignore them.

What he means to think is, naturally, how best to get to Mycroft. It's a rather long way from Greg's rundown apartment to his brother's posh neighbourhood, and he should really economize his money, because, while Mycroft might help him, he'll certainly not give him any money to buy drugs, but likely, there's a tube station nearby, and while he might be dressed in ill-fitting clothes and anyone who has any experience can tell he's high on cocaine, at least he doesn't smell anymore, so he can use it.

The ride is uneventful, he just ignores the looks people shoot him now and then because he does look a bit like a clown in Greg's clothes, and he's sitting next to a secretary who's clearly having an affair with the CEO of her firm and has done so in the last four job she's had, and the child sitting opposite him is clearly only on the tube alone because his parents divorced recently and there was a misunderstanding who should pick him up after school today. In a way, Sherlock feels a kinship with the sad little child; he's lost in a strange place too and has nobody to come pick him up, if you don't count a DI who's most likely three sheets in the wind by now.

But thoughts like this won't help. He has to get himself together. He tries to picture himself telling Mycroft all that's happened, formulates the story in the most easily understandable way he can find, not because his brother has ever had any trouble understanding him (quite the contrary, he's always been able to read his mind, and it's annoying), but because Sherlock is perfectly aware that the whole thing seems...

Unbelievable.

Impossible.

Drug-induced, perhaps?

The doubts come back to haunt him.

No. It can't be. He remembers John's favourite tea. He remembers Lestrade's favourite tie. He remembers the awful tea set Mrs. Hudson got as a wedding present from her mother-in-law that got smashed when he returned. That's too much to make up, even in a drug-induced hallucination.

Besides, Greg recognised him. True, at first it had seemed he only knew him as a "crackhead" who'd stumbled upon a crime scene once and then vanished, never to be seen again, but then... this moment where some other recognition seemed to flutter just behind his eyes, and he could actually watch the DI trying, but ultimately failing, to grasp it.

The world he remembers so well, the world he was... ordinary people would say _happy_ in has to be real.

Because he doesn't think he could live with if it wasn't.

He really doesn't like the state he's in, he decides; not even when hunting Moriarty's many, many henchmen has he felt so vulnerable, so unable to keep his emotions at bay. Of course, the reason why it's so difficult for him now is quite clear to him.

In those three years... He knew his friends (how he abhorred the word, once upon a time, but he's long since accepted that certain people managed to sneak behind his armour and that he'll have to live with it) were safe, in London, he knew what he had to do to get back to them. But here...

Thankfully, he has to get out of the tube. The difference to Lestrade's old/new/strange? neighbourhood is striking; the street is long and broad, the pavement well kept, the houses, or rather mansion, elegant and looked after. After all the things he's seen today, it reassures him to know that some parts of London still look like he remembers them.

Although he is rather certain that Mycroft would live here, in his beloved mansion, in every universe, time, or dimension, he can't hold back the sigh of relief when he sees the well-known black limousine in front of the house. This will be easier than he...

His relief is short-lived, because mid-thought, he realizes something that makes his eyes narrow.

 _Why_ is the limousine standing in front of the house?

Mycroft owes several, naturally, but he only uses one per day – if he doesn't have Sherlock's friends and acquaintances kidnapped with another one, that is. And he's always been trying to keep as low a profile as the big mansion will allow, so there'll only ever stand a limousine in front of the house when he's at home. So people may come to the conclusion that he just has one, and therefore a well-paid job, rather than thinking "he owes way too many to live a remotely normal life, so what does he do all day?" and starting to investigate.

And Mycroft really _really_ shouldn't be at home right now. It's still only early afternoon, two o' clock at the most, he thinks he left Greg's flat at bout one thirty, so why is his brother here?

Even if he doesn't have to work all day long, which happens occasionally, though not often, Mycroft won't return home. He prefers spending his free time in the Diogenes club. Which is where Sherlock would actually have gone, if he hadn't been so anxious to speak to his brother alone.

Well, at least that will happen now, because no one, not even Anthea, has ever been allowed into Mycroft's house, actually, Sherlock is rather sure that apart from him, there haven't been any visitors in years, and even his visits were few and far between.

Mycroft doesn't even have a cleaning lady, doing the hovering and everything himself, preferring to keep his secrets as safely guarded as he can by refusing any staff to enter his mansion.

But, still, he has to admit that seeing his brother at home at this time of the day is perhaps even more unsettling than Mrs. Hudson not recognizing him or Lestrade being an alcoholic. Though only slightly.

He actually thought he'd have to break in, like he did with Greg's place. He thought he would have to try and get rid of all the security cameras and disarm the security system. But there doesn't seem to be any, and that scares him. Why wouldn't Mycroft want to be protected anymore? If paranoia ever was justified, it was in the case of the British Government. Why isn't there a security system?

But there's only one person who can answer all these questions, and this person is currently in the mansion, so Sherlock does the unthinkable and simply walks up to the front door and _knocks_.

As if that alone wasn't confusing enough, it doesn't even take a minute for Mycroft to open the door.

And then, and only then, Sherlock gets his biggest shock of the day.

He wasn't shocked when he woke up, when he saw Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade.

But seeing Mycroft in a T-shirt and jeans is simply too much.

His brother rolls his eyes. "I assume you are here for my next wallet? Should I spare us both the trouble and simply give it to you, so you can be on your way? And there's no need to stare. I know we haven't really seen each other for quite a long time – and, no, you stealing my wallet without me noticing you are in the proximity doesn't count – but, as far as I know, we prefer it that way."

Sherlock closes his mouth. In a way, this is worse than Mrs. Hudson's or Lestrade's reaction.

Because Mrs. Hudson might not have remembered him, but at least she _cared_.

And Greg might not care about anything, but he was _interested_.

This – the tone of voice, the look in his brother's eyes – it all speaks of simple, plain _indifference_.

And Sherlock would never have imagined that this would hurt him so much.

Mycroft grows impatient. "So, what is it? It's rather cold, even in your – state you must have realized it, judging by the rather ill-fitting coat you're wearing".

Sherlock opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Mycroft just adds, "Forget it, brother dear. I don't see the benefit of even trying to listen to anything you might have to say. A good day to you." And then he does something else Sherlock would have sworn less than a minute ago he'd never see his older brother do, and actually slams the door in his face.

He's still standing in front of it, a minute later, and is only roused from his stupor when he hears a car horn at the corner of the street.

What now?

He could leave, but he needs Mycroft's help, and he just can't believe his brother will really leave him standing there, in this weather. And –

But of course. If Mycroft was this indifferent towards him, he wouldn't have slammed the door in his face with such force, so quickly, as if trying to convince himself he really wants his brother to leave. There still has to be something there of the older sibling Sherlock remembers.

So he knocks again.

The door opens again immediately, proving Mycroft stood in front of it the whole time, maybe thinking about whether he should call after him or not.

This time, Sherlock is prepared. He puts his foot in the door, ignores Mycroft's glare and holds up the photo he found in his brother's wallet. "I thought you'd want that back".

Mycroft's eyes wander from the picture to Sherlock's face, and he knows he's seeing similarities between the little boy in the photo and the man standing in front of him, even in his pitiable state.

"I thought you had got rid of it. I was rather – " Mycroft stops and Sherlock nods. No explanation necessary.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock says, slowly, making sure he shows what he feels and needs in his voice and his face and his eyes, which doesn't come easy to the both of them, "Please, let me in. I need your – I need to speak with you, and I'm afraid it will take a while."

Mycroft doesn't say anything, and his expression doesn't change, but he takes the picture and his eyes soften as he compares the Sherlock then and the Sherlock now once again.

He steps aside wordlessly and Sherlock, with a sigh of relief, enters his brother's house.


	8. Chapter 8

The interior of the house seems to be unaltered, at least, so this whole situation isn't as confusing as it could be.

Once you get over what Mycroft is wearing, that is.

Sherlock can't remember his brother ever not wearing a suit. Even when they were children, Mummy would make sure that Mycroft always had little suits tailored for him. The only thing Sherlock ever saw him in that wasn't a suit was a hoodie he had to put on over it over ten years ago because a foreign agent had bled all over his shirt. And even then, annoying posh git that he is, he wouldn't stop complaining.

But, now, he seems quite comfortable in the t-shirt and the pair of jeans and – oh my God, are those _sneakers_?

And _where_ is his umbrella? There weren't any in the stand next to the door, and Mycroft isn't carrying one. And he had a special umbrella for every suit he owned.

Which was quite a large number.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and follows Mycroft through the long corridor in the dining room.

There, his brother turns around for the first time, but not before laying the picture carefully on the table.

"So, you actually came to my house, just to speak with me. I assume it is important."

Sherlock clears his throat, and is suddenly feeling very self-conscious. Trying to see Mrs. Hudson, telling an alcoholic DI who was his friend in another life his story, that was one thing. But convincing his brother, who is – Sherlock only admits it while grinding his teeth – smarter than him, that's different. And, suddenly, he, who was so convinced he was right just a minute ago, is very unsure.

Mycroft seems to feel – who's he kidding, really, he probably knew before Sherlock knew – his hesitation and apparently wants to make a snappish remark, when his eyes land on the picture again and he thinks the better of it.

"Sherlock... Do you want something to eat?"

He can't say no to that. True, the breakfast he had at Greg's has helped a bit, but his body needs real nourishment. So he nods.

Mycroft nods too and says "Well, then, I will prepare something. It is time for lunch anyway. Just... make yourself comfortable."

Sherlock, of course hears the unspoken _I'm ready whenever you are so please tell me what's going on_ , and uses the time his brother spends in the kitchen – again, Mycroft's always cooked for himself and never trusted any kitchen staff – to gather his thoughts.

He doesn't know how to explain what happened, because he simple doesn't know _what_ happened. He only knows what he remembers, his real life, not this pathetic, awful, "crackhead" life he woke up to this morning. Mycroft has to believe him, there is no other way.

It feels like he has been stabbed in the back of his head, all of a sudden, he gasps for air, and –

**The room with the white ceiling again, and why is he lying down? And then there's the tap tap tap of an umbrella on the floor, and he doesn't know what's going on, but he would recognize this voice anywhere. "Have there been any changes?" Of course, Mycroft would be there, now of all times.**

Someone's shaking his shoulder, and who could it be but his older brother. "Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice sounds worried, and he's kneeling on the floor again – if only this hallucinations would stop.

"I'm fine" he manages to croak out eventually, and Mycroft lets go of his shoulder as soon as he utters the line, and his eyes turn even harder than they were when he opened the door as he answers "The cocaine finally getting to you?" and Sherlock can't stand it, and he might not always have seen eye-to-eye with his brother, but this, this –

_He really wishes he didn't have to kill both of them. Really, why didn't the brothers-turned-into-human- trafficking-bosses simply leave the country? Or, at least, decide that one death in the family was quite enough? No, they had to die together, because they were brothers, and as strongly bound in affection as in blood, and Sherlock hates it, hates the fact that he has to spill blood, and this time, he can't use a gun, because he hasn't yet found out where best to an unregistered one in this country, so he'll have to cut their throats, and how they beg not to have to see their brother die, and he loathes what he has become, but it's his only chance of ever getting home, really, why, oh why, didn't they let themselves get arrested..._

"Sherlock!" This time, his brother really sounds worried, and he knows why. Mycroft, of course, knows all about repressed memories, conversations he never should have witnessed, things he wishes he should never have to do at all. He knows the look in his little brother's eyes, knows it from his own mirror. Now or never, he can make him believe the truth. Sherlock shakes himself out of his mind palace and into this – semblance of real life.

"Like I said, I am fine. Don't worry. What I came to talk to you about..." his stomach growls. "But, first, what is for lunch?"

Mycroft actually chuckles at that, and puts the plate in front of him. As usual, his brother's cooked rather well, and as Sherlock devours the food, he figures that the one other thing he observed about him will be just as good an opening as anything else, so he says, between two bites, "You have lost weight".

Mycroft frowns. "I would have thought you had paid more intention when you stole my wallet a few weeks back... I know we haven't seen each other for quite a while, but I have been as fit and slim as you see me for a few years now."

Sherlock almost snorts, but manages to keep his countenance. "Not as I remember it."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft seems to use his name today quite often, interesting, as he usually only used it sporadically, preferring "brother mine" because he knew it would annoy him, "I think it's safe to say that your memory has been somewhat compromised. I hope you don't think so insultingly low of me as to believe I wouldn't notice that you are under the influence of drugs right now?"

Sherlock swallows another bite. "Just so I can think, the withdrawal symptoms are rather unpleasant."

"The logic of addiction." Mycroft's gaze is calculating right now, deducing even, and then, just for a short moment, there is this... shadow across his eyes, the one he already saw when he talked to Greg, but then it's gone. "But, I must admit, you seem much more lucid than you were the last few times we spoke to one another. May I ask what brought you here now, you have, after all, finished your lunch."

It's true, too; he has eaten so quickly it would most likely make John proud.

 _John_... The thought gives him the courage he needs.

"Mycroft, I am aware this may sound crazy and seem impossible. But I need you to listen to me. Do you promise to listen?"

His brother raises an eyebrow. "You haven't asked me a question like that since we were children. But, if only for the sake of old times, I will listen to you." This may not be a very encouraging reaction, but Sherlock knows Mycroft and he realizes how his eyes linger on the picture on the table for a moment, so he's sure the British Government will listen for as long as it takes him to explain everything.

And explain he does. Or tries to, at least; tries to make Mycroft _see_ that they counted on one another, sort of, that they helped one another, again, sort of, that everything got better once he met John, that it changes, in a way, when he returned from the dead, because they decided to try to be brothers, to start from a "clean slate". He explains all this and more: How he quit the seven percent solution for everything, his career, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, how he met John, their first case, every case really, it's just a relief to talk to someone who understands what he say, because, as helpful and... _nice_ as Greg was, it was rather obvious he didn't understand one word in five, and then he arrives at the Irene Adler case and...

Suddenly, Mycroft presses his lips together and turns his head, and it's as close as Sherlock has ever seen to his brother being angry, so he asks "Mycroft? Is... is everything alright?"

"I didn't know you'd heard about it, though I thought you would find out, one day" his brother answers bitterly.

Now Sherlock is confused. "What do you mean?"

"Irene Adler. The Woman. Who blackmailed the Royals and through them, naturally, the British Government. She had her phone, and she had the help of Moriarty. And she won. She had to be bought and given a new identity... in the Witness Protection Programme of the FBI, of all places. You can deduce who took the blame, I imagine."

And, just like that, everything made sense. "They... they kicked you out? The forced you to retire? Is that why you're not at the Diogenes Club or at work? That is why you are wearing... _this_ and why there are no security cameras?"

Mycroft smiles humourlessly. "Correct. I just don't see why I should still take the trouble of dressing up, when I'm not going anywhere. And with no secrets to protect... why a security system? And before you ask about the umbrella... you must have been aware it was a weapon, cleverly hidden in a disguise no one would take seriously. So, no need for that either. Though I wasn't aware you even knew of the existence of the Club..."

"Of course I did. Even John was there a couple of times."

Mycroft sends him a strange look, a mixture of exasperation and... pity? "Ah, John. Your..."

Sherlock jumps up from the chair. "Don't you dare say "imaginary friend", Mycroft. I remember him. I know he exists."

Mycroft takes a deep breath. "Sherlock, hallucinations can appear quite real to the one hallucinating. You've been taking cocaine for years..." "No, I haven't!" Sherlock snaps, interrupting him. "Just let me finish..."

And he tells Mycroft everything, the case in Baskerville ("I couldn't possibly have gotten you into the laboratory by this point, Sherlock, remember, I don't have any power anymore") and the... the last case before his disappearance. What he did during these three years. How it affected everyone when he returned – and, at his explanation of how Mycroft reacted when he came back, his brother does seem genuinely touched. "To be honest, that does sound like how I would react... But, Sherlock, I can assure you Moriarty is not dead. I may not "be the British Government" anymore, as you so eloquently put it, but I still keep an eye open for certain... developments, and he's alive and well, and, by now, I imagine, responsible for almost every crime committed in our city."

That feels like a punch to the gut. Of course, Sherlock had entertained the possibility that Moriarty may be alive in this reality, but to actually hear it –

**The room, the white ceiling, the voice of his brother, "Doctor Watson! Come quickly! Something is happening" and running steps outside –**

He shakes his head, willing himself not to have another almost-panic attack.

"Mycroft... Do you believe me at all?"

His brother hesitates, to his credit, and tries to form a diplomatic answer, as always.

"wait for a moment, please." The he leaves the room, abruptly, and Sherlock doesn't know what's going on. His brother returns very soon, a pack of papers in his hand. "There. Blood tests. Discharge papers from various hospitals. You have been a cocaine addict ever since you turned twenty, Sherlock. You never helped the police, you never solved any crimes. You never had any friends. You never even went to America, where you think you met this Mrs... Hudson. I offered you a ticket, but you declined. You wanted to get high instead."

There is so much Sherlock wants to say, but as he looks through the papers, sees his name not only on hospital discharge documents, but also on various arrest forms (Mycroft most likely dealt with that, while he still had any influence), it's easy to pierce his life together.

The life of a failure.

The life of an addict.

The life of a man who never had any friends, solved any crimes or ever did anything productive in his whole life.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock stares at the documents Mycroft just gave him, his thoughts tumbling over one another, the high slowly leaving him; very soon, the coke bugs will make their appearance again, and then – should his brother decide to keep him here until he's detoxed, he might not be able to find John in time –

_Was there ever a John Watson?_

The thought comes unbidden, and refuses to go away, no matter how much Sherlock tries to push it out of his mind.

But then he shakes himself out of his stupor; proving that John exists should be the easiest thing in the world. He does, after all, write a blog, and while Mycroft may not be able to access military files anymore, he still must possess some form of internet connection.

Mycroft seems to have anticipated his next question (sometimes, his ability to read Sherlock's minds, as annoying as it may be, is actually quite useful) and when he looks up, his brother is busy on a laptop. He must have left the room during Sherlock's contemplation of the documents then, without him noticing.

" _I said, could you pass me a pen?"_

" _When?"_

" _About an hour ago."_

" _Didn't realize I had gone out, then."_

The memory feels like another stab in his gut, and he exhales slowly. Mycroft shoots him another worried glance. "Are you alright? I can clearly see..."

"I'm okay. For a bit, at least."

"Good, then."

And, for a moment, a stupid, rather childish moment, Sherlock wishes he would have yelled at him instead. Or admonished him. Like he used to do in the life Sherlock remembers. Because the way Mycroft treats his... addiction right now just gives him the feeling that his brother accepted long ago that this was all he could ever be. An addict.

A failure.

So, just to break the silence, he asks, rather helplessly, "Whatever happened to my violin?"

Mycroft answers without hesitation. "I was informed you'd pawned it for money for more drugs years ago."

But, before he can allow this thought to sink in properly, Mycroft turns the laptop around.

"John Watson, wasn't it? A blog? I presume you mean this one."

Sherlock recognizes the familiar webpage instantly. How could he not? He has read, commented on, belittled it so often, he can quote most of John's entries word for word.

Or at least he _could_ , if they were there.

But they aren't. There are several entries, dating over the last few years – but there's nothing about Sherlock, their flat, their cases.

Instead –

 _15th December_  
Pointless.  
Nothing happens to me.

 _29_ _th_ _January_. The day they met. Or should have met. Were supposed to have met.  
 _Meeting an old friend_ _  
Met Mike Stamford today, of all people. Had coffee together. Might go out for drinks sometime. Same old Mike, nicest guy ever, not a care in the world. Hasn't changed since uni one bit. Only wish I could say the same about me. At least he didn't mention the cane once I'd established that I got shot._

So he met Mike Stamford, then. But not Sherlock. Which only leaves one conclusion:

He didn't meet Sherlock, _because Sherlock wasn't in St Bart's and had never even spoken to Mike Stamford. Because Sherlock had most likely been lying in a ditch, high as a kite._

_Once you have ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

He can almost hear John answer "What does that mean?"

He must have spoken his old favourite saying out loud, because Mycroft reacts surprised. "So you actually remember some of what Mummy told us, then, I didn't expect that."

But Sherlock doesn't answer, because he's reading through John's other blog posts.

There aren't many.

_Went to a pub with Mike._

_Serial suicides have stopped, apparently with no cause whatsoever. Don't think the police have anything to do with it._

_Still nothing happens to me._

_Had to move again, even smaller flat this time, but I can't seem to be able to leave London. It's like something's holding me here, although nothing is._

_Ella's trying to push me back into work, but I don't see that in my future anytime soon. Who wants to be treated by a doctor whose left hand is shaking like a leaf in a storm? And who can't even walk properly?_

_Harry and Clara are together again. Well, maybe this time it'll work out. Wouldn't hold my breath though._

Sherlock frowns. His John would never have posted anything like this about his sister.

Then, again, his John would have been living with him at this point.

_A woman smiled at me today. Probably pitied me. It's not like anyone would want someone so utterly useless._

And so it goes on, each post speaking more clearly of depression, loneliness and hopelessness than the last. The final entry is almost a year old.

_What is the point of all of this, anyway?_

And that's it, and Sherlock's gripped by a fear that he can't deny or delete, a fear that tells him John might not be in London anymore, because –

Because he used that gun he used to keep in his desk and stare at every morning before he met Sherlock, and not to shoot holes in the wall or catch criminals.

Because he committed –

And then, Sherlock is actually lying on the floor, and Mycroft is sounding genuinely panicked. "Sherlock? Sherlock? You just fell out of the chair without a word. Sherlock?"

**The room again, the ceiling, the blond man and the vaguely familiar looking man. The later is talking to the former. "You know how stubborn he is, John, don't worry." But his voice is laced with worry, too. Some people are idiots.**

He shakes of the picture of John and Lestrade in the room, as well as his brother's hands. "What about my homepage?" And he ignores the look in Mycroft's eyes and the shake of his head, and tries to access his homepage, The Science Of Deduction, and finds nothing.

His homepage doesn't exist.

His career doesn't exist.

His _life_ doesn't exist.

" _Don't worry, you'll never have existed, nobody will ever find your body" The Spanish voice is sounding cold and threatening, and the knife comes closer..._

"It's impossible!" Sherlock exclaims, maybe louder than he meant to.

Mycroft just looks at him.

"Mycroft, I can remember _everything_! My life... It's not this. I quite cocaine, I went cold turkey, here in this house, I was thirty. Mrs. Hudson's case had opened my eyes, and I wanted to solve more cases, but didn't know how, and then I stumbled upon Lestrade at a crime scene, and he arrested me at first, but then he told me I could help if I quit, and you were trying to force me into detox all the time, anyway, so I – "

"Sherlock, what did you just say about impossible, improbable and truth?" Mycroft shoots back, almost as loud as Sherlock. They've both jumped up, and are now facing each other, the table between them. "You _know_ what cocaine does to the body and the brain, the symptoms can be quite similar to those of a mental illness. Or maybe the use triggered a mental illness. What you are saying, what you are trying to tell me, it's impossible.  
Don't you think I would like to believe your story, too? Don't you think I would prefer – " he stops.

Of course. Naturally, Mycroft would prefer to still be the British Government, the Secret Service and the CIA on a free-lance basis. Never mind that...

But the Mycroft continues, much more quietly.

"Don't you think I would prefer to be able to visit you and your best friend in your flat? Don't you think I would prefer to be able to ask you for help on cases? You know how much I hate legwork. Don't you think I would prefer to – to _talk_ to you sometimes, when you're not high? To ask you how you're doing? To... to be your brother, now and then?"

And then Mycroft turns around, and Sherlock looks somewhere else, because he, too, has seen the tears in his brother's eyes, and is himself quite thankful for a chance to rub his eyes without being observed.

Mycroft walks round the table and does another thing he's never done before, or at least, not since they were both over the age of seven.

He squeezes Sherlock's hand and speaks again, slowly, insistently.

"Sherlock... Despite all this, and the bad blood and the history between us... I can't help but notice there's something different about you, today. You seem... You seem to actually care about your life, and... other people, and... Do what you just said. Stay here and detox. I can get doctors and everything you need. You can do it, I'm sure of it. I –" He hesitates, then decides to say what he wants to say. "I got your violin back, you know, as soon as I heard what you'd done with it. It's upstairs. It's yours again, if you want."

The raw caring and need Sherlock's hears in his voice takes his breath away, and he deliberately doesn't look in his brother's face. And then he thinks –

Why not take him up on the offer? He already knows what he will endure, although he's apparently never tried it before; maybe he can live with Mycroft afterwards. He is lost, he's unsure, he's an addict – all he has is his brother. Greg – Greg just grasped at straws, because he desperately needed his life to have some semblance of meaning.

He wants to say yes, opens his mouth to say yes, but then he is flooded by memories, jumbled together, in the wrong order, some pleasant, some unpleasant, but so _real_.

" _That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."_

" _Because you are an idiot"._

" _Will you come?"_

" _Sherlock, the mess you've made."_

" _Jim wasn't even my boyfriend."_

" _I have been reliably informed I don't have one."  
"We both know that's not quite true"._

" _I'm starting to enjoy this"._

" _Old friend of mine, John Watson"._

"" _Why don't you get a flatshare?"_

" _If I go where you point me"._

" _Don't make me order you"._

" _They will die if you don't"_

" _John, I had to – "  
"How DARE you say that!"_

" _Of course you can spent the night here, Sherlock. It's – it's good to have you back."_

" _Clean slate, if you want, Mycroft".  
"Yes, I would like that, Sherlock."_

" _Bring John back with you, Sherlock, promise?"_  
"I promise, Mrs. Hudson."  
"It will be just like in the old days, then! I'll make us a cuppa."

And he can't give up yet, can't give up _them_ yet. So, instead of yes, he says, "Mycroft... One more day. Give me one more day. I have to find John, if only to convince myself. Then, I will come. I promise."

Mycroft lets go of his hand and steps back. "Of course, how stupid of me to assume..."

"No, Mycroft, please. I will come and do what you just told me to, I just... I need this. This last try. This last hope. Give me a phone, and I'll stay in touch during the day."

Mycroft looks at him, but some of the scepticism has left his voice when he says, "Wait here, just for a moment. Then you can go."

He comes back with a smart phone. It even has an internet connection. God bless Mycroft's need to be prepared for anything, even when he no longer has anything to prepare himself for.

Sherlock puts the phone in one pocket of Greg's coat. "Thank you".

Mycroft nods. "So... you are off then? For twenty-four hours?"

"Yes. If John doesn't recognize me." Mycroft wisely chooses not to answer. Instead, he says. "Till then. Take care."

"I will" Sherlock answers, and then he turns around and leaves the house, determined to find out the truth once and for all.

No matter how horrible it might be. _  
_


	10. Chapter 10

As the door of Mycroft's mansion closes behind him, Sherlock can feel the last remains of the cocaine leaving his bloodstream, and the coke bugs crawling all over his skin. Luckily, he hasn't given his brother his word not to get high during the twenty-four hours. If he wants to find John, he needs to have all his wits about him, and for that, as much as he may loathe admitting it, he needs the drug. Preferably fast, before the headache, dizziness and exhaustion make another appearance.

He might not remember the life he has stranded in – for lack of a better word – but he still knows where best to score some coke in this city.

So he takes the tube again, and soon walks through streets that can barely be called such. Sure enough, there's another corner, another suspicious shade. This time, he buys the shade out. He doesn't want to lose another one of his precious twenty-four hours left to hope and to find a way out of this nightmare by searching for a dealer. He might not have any money left at the end of the transaction, but at least he'll be good until tomorrow, as long as he always finds a place to stick the needle in his arm without being observed. And that will be easy enough. There's always a quiet place to shoot up in London, if you know how and where to look.

He does it in a public restroom, for the time being, that certainly hasn't been cleaned for at least a year. But it fulfils the purpose. Thank God he still has the needle he bought outside Greg's.

Which reminds him. He might not be able to come and take Greg with him on his search – a high drug addict and an alcoholic DI together would most likely be less effective than the addict alone – but he promised him to return, and while Sherlock hasn't had any problems with breaking promises in the past, he can't help remembering how empty Greg's eyes looked, and how he had come to not care about anything, really, and should he – once he returns to Mycroft and starts the detox, he wants Greg to remember him. Maybe, just maybe, after he's clean, he can help him quit the booze and they can get back some semblance of what they had before.

_Unless this world is the delusion._

But how? He didn't take any drugs, and mental illnesses don't fabricate entire worlds upon their first symptoms. Is he lying in a coma somewhere? Then, what happened?

He wishes he was home. His home, where Mrs. Hudson berates him for shooting at the wall, John pesters him to eat, and Lestrade tries to call him in as often as possible.

But he can't have that, apparently, so he'll take the next best thing, and at the moment, that's first calling Greg and then trying to find John, and maybe, possibly, hopefully, once he _has_...

Not enough data. Stick to the plan. Call Greg.

He uses the internet connection to access the phone book, once again, and sure enough, there's his mobile number.

He picks up just as Sherlock has convinced himself he's too drunk to bother finding his phone. Although his theory wasn't so far from the truth.

"Hello, Greg, it's me."

"Sh... sh... Sherlock" the DI slurs into the phone. "That you? Had alllllmossssssssst given up ho-hope you'd show up." He laughs. "And you diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiidn't. You just called, so you're not here."

"Correct, Greg. A very correct deduction." Sherlock tries to stay calm, but some part of him desperately wants to scream at the DI. It's almost physically painful to hear his slur his speech like that, and, for once, Sherlock is glad he doesn't have to see something.

"What did I say, about not drinking yourself into a stupor?" he asks instead of screaming.

"I'm not ina stupor. Im still talling, ain't I? So I'm not unconsc- unconsci- Im not asleep."

He can't say anything against that, really. "Listen, Greg, do you happen to have a paper and a pen near you?"

"Yeeeeeeaaaahhhhhh, whhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy?" the DI almost whines, and Sherlock ignores the impulse to hold the phone at arm's length.

""because I am going to tell you something, and we both know you'll most likely not remember I called when you're sober again, so I want you to write it down."

"All clear, 'lock. Wait a moment". And then he hears groaning and bottles rolling around – good God, he must have been lying on the floor – and finally, after what seems like an eternity, Greg says "Pen and paper, all there now. Whatdoyawaynt?"

"I am trying to find John" Sherlock dictates, and he can't suppress the smile when he hears the DI murmur the words before writing them down. Greg's always had this habit, and while he usually manages not to do it in front of witnesses, he's never hidden it from Sherlock. Some things don't change, at least, and that's a comfort.

"And I'm currently nowhere near your flat, and don't have the time to get you, I'm sorry, so just wait for my next call. Did you get that?"

Greg grumbles "Donyalietome, druggie. You just don wanna have a drunk DI with ya."

"That seems to be another possible explanation, yes." Sherlock doesn't have the patience to lie. It was almost four o' clock in the afternoon when he left Mycroft's house, buying and taking the cocaine has cost him another hour, and he would definitely prefer to conduct his search for John in daylight, or what little of it is left. He doesn't have the time to try to be nice...

**The room, the ceiling, Mycroft. "You know, brother mine, everybody's worried about you. I would definitely prefer it if you would – "**

No time for that now, either.

"Greg, I will call. As soon as I've found John. All right?"

"Allrightthen. But don ya come cryin to me when he doesn know you either". The DI hangs up, and Sherlock assumes he must be a little angry that he doesn't want him to accompany him. But there is much, much more at stake than Greg's ego.

Judging from John's blog entries, he has moved several times in the past five years. And, since he doesn't seem to care where he lives anymore, the phone book won't be of much help; Sherlock's rather certain his friend hasn't registered any change of address the last few times he moved.

So, process of elimination, then.

Cheap accommodation. Thinking of the blog entries again, Sherlock decides it's probably going to be rather nasty and ugly. His leg is still hurting John, so somewhere within a certain radius to a shop. And a tube, when possible. Near his therapist? No, John has most likely stopped going to his appointments.

Still, that's quite enough to pinpoint a certain area where John might be expected to live. There aren't many areas in London that are so unpopular that you can find a cheap flat near a tube station and a supermarket.

Sherlock can only think of two "districts" who fit the criteria, and both of them aren't very big. They are also quite far from each other, sadly, so he decides where John is more likely to live – the teashop that's next to the supermarket according to his Google search is an important clue – and sets out.

The tube ride is long, again, and he desperately wills the train to go faster. He has to find John. His last hope. His last try before accepting what Mycroft wants him to accept.

" _This would hurt much less if you would just accept and lie still, honey" the woman says. "You really shouldn't have told the police that my right-hand man was one of their own. Now you have to bear the consequences." The flask full of acid tips again, and this time, Sherlock feels a sharp pain at his thigh. "I just said, lie still. You're not doing yourself any favours."  
At least the pain makes him act, and he manages to free himself with almost superhuman strength and escape. He brings down the whole organization a few days later. The acid burn on his thigh takes his time to heal, and will most certainly leave behind a scar..._

Sherlock rubs a hand over his thigh and winces at the memory.

Accepting wouldn't have made it hurt any less. Accepting just means giving up.

He arrives at his destination just at dusk.

The street is gloomy, and empty. There's the tube station, there is the supermarket, there is the tea shop. And out of the tea shop just comes...

Someone who causes him to feel everything at the same time.

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. He'd know this person anywhere, from the blond and by now slowly greying hair over the awful jumper he's wearing under his oh-so-familiar- jacket with the patches at the elbows to the –

Limp. Another stab in Sherlock's heart. He remembers John limped when they first met – of course he does, everything about John is safely stored in his mind palace – but his limp was never this bad. His leg must be giving him a lot of trouble today.

At least he hopes it's only today that his leg gives him that much trouble.

And at the same time, he feels unspeakable relief, because John is alive, he hasn't committed suicide.

 _Yet_. The part of him that's always deducing, can never seem to stop it, really, has seen what he's trying not to realize. The way John's shoulders sag. How he didn't look back and hold the door open for the old lady who exited the shop after him. How he tries to stay in the shadows, even at dusk, even in an almost empty street, like he wishes he could just disappear.

John has given up, and it is only a matter of time before he decides that he might as well...

No. This is not going to happen, Sherlock is going to prevent it, even if he will be locked up for months in Mycroft's house afterwards, even if John doesn't recognize him, which seems likely. More than likely, in fact. But the world needs people like John Watson in it, and Sherlock is going to show him this, at any costs.

Before he fully realizes what he's doing, he's jogging after his friend-in-another-life.

"John! John Watson!"

Either John doesn't hear, or he doesn't want to hear, which is an even worse sign. The John Sherlock knew always turned around when someone called his name – you never knew when someone needed your help, after all. And if there was someone who has helpfulness personified, it was John Watson.

So, Sherlock does what he did during the Baskerville case, so long ago, and turns John around by clinging to his left arm.

And what he sees is worse than anything he could have imagined.

Not the hollowness in John's eyes – he could imagine so much, from the way his friend walked. But the _hostility_ in them. The look that says _I don't know who you are, but get lost immediately because I don't care_.

Sherlock is unable to say anything for a moment, and John frees his arm. "What do you want, junkie? Yeah, that's right, don't look so surprised, I used to be a doctor, I know someone's high when I see them. You know, I didn't turn around because I. Don't. Want. To. Talk. To. Anybody. So get lost. As soon as possible. Now."

"John..." Sherlock desperately struggling for words. What he gets out is, "I know this sounds crazy, but listen to me... We weren't supposed to be like this. We should have met five years ago. We... we would have saved each other."

John's eyes turn even harder, if that's possible. "And how?"

"You... you didn't have the limp after you had met me. You made sure I ate and slept. We solved crimes. You laughed, you dated some rather annoying women. You had a job at Bart's. You... you were my best friend. Please, John, believe me, this is how it should have been."

"Then you should have turned up then" is all he answers, then he turns around.

"John, please... could be dangerous" Sherlock stammers, as a last resort.

This time, his best friend doesn't even turn around. He just continues walking away from Sherlock, who remains standing in the street.

The last part of his old life gone.

Forever.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock stares blankly after John, who just rejected him like he didn't care, because he didn't. Because, in this version of their lives, Sherlock is a cocaine addict and John is an ex-army doctor who never found his way back into life.

Because they never met.

But Sherlock won't be beaten so easily. He runs after John again. He has to try, God knows he has to try.

"John!"

The ex-army doctor stops walking, sighs and turns around to give Sherlock another death-glare.

"Since you're obviously not going to leave – how about I listen what you have to say, and then we both go our separate ways? There's a wall in my living-room that won't stare at itself the whole night.

Sherlock winces. Has it really come to this? Is all John does buying tea, staring at walls and contemplating suicide?

The answer is only too obvious. Yes.

But, at least, he has a chance. And he knows what impressed John all those years ago. He can only hope it will work again.

So, he takes a deep breath. "You are an ex-army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan five years ago. You have a sister," he almost says Harry's name but manages to avoid it – if John realized he knew things like that, he would look upon him as a stalker, not as a "brilliant, fantastic" man who just looks at someone and _knows,_ andat least now he can go back to deducing, and he sees quite clearly that John doesn't have his phone, or rather Harry's phone, with him, which proves his sister must have been annoying him with calls "who has almost certainly bought you the frankly quite hideous jumper you're wearing and is, by the looks of it, recently separated from her partner." He wouldn't have believed Harry and Clara could actually make it work, either; he really can't blame John for the blog entry.

John is listening now, at least, with a look of surprise on his face. It's better than the downright hostility from just a few moments before.

"You –" And this is where it gets painful, because Sherlock managed, when he sae John for the first time, to keep his deductions to the minimum. But now...

"You aren't happy. Far from it. You haven't worked in..." Wait, the trousers he's wearing can't be older than three years. So he tried to look presentable at some point. "At least two years, though you did try to get back into your job, because you loved it. Helping people, the excitement. You miss it."

The food and the tea he has in his bag...

"You have to live with very little money, because your army pension barely allows you to stay in London. But still, the food and the tea you bought –" Here John actually glances at the contents of his bad "Are incredibly cheap and don't taste good. Even you could afford something better, but you choose not to." Here, his breath catches in his throat for a second, because, when John shifts his weight, he can see his right wrist for a moment.

There's a faint scratch there that can only come from a knife

Not a scar, so no actual suicide attempt, but he did hold a knife to his wrist and pushed. A little bit.

He's already contemplating which method to use. He's almost _trying them out_. No, don't think about that now.

"You don't think to deserve something better. You feel utterly useless, because you're limping and your hand keeps shaking, although these are both psychosomatic. And you aren't. Useless, I mean. But even so – you stand up, you stare at the wall, you go shopping, you eat because your body needs nourishment, you stare at the wall again, then you lie down and stare at the ceiling, because sleep doesn't come easily to you, and when it does, you wake up from nightmares. So you sit up and stare at the wall again until it's time to get up. And the cycle repeats itself."

He'd rather not bring up John's contemplation of suicide, so he doesn't. But he stands still and looks at his friend, and waits.

Which John would have appreciated greatly in their better lives, undoubtedly.

John looks back, for a moment, there's still the surprise on his face, and disbelief...

Then, his eyes turn hard and his face becomes impassive again and he says two words Sherlock thought he'd never hear from his lips.

"Piss. Off". And, just like that, John turns and keeps walking, and this time, Sherlock lets him go. He doesn't even watch him leave. He looks at the pavement instead.

His only reaction is muttering "That's what people usually say" under his breath.

Then he turns and leaves the street.

It is over. Everything's over: John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, the life he dreamed up for himself...

He should just go back to Mycroft's now, really.

But something of the old spirit of rebellion, that has always made his life – or the life he desperately wants to have had, really – more adventurous than those of other human beings, is still in him and rears its head.

Twenty-four hours, that's what they agreed on. Twenty-four hours to find John, to find out that this life is the unreal one. Well, that didn't work out quite so well, but still. He still has over twenty hours left.

He might as well spend them with someone he might be able to help, if only by keeping him company.

Luckily, Greg is far more sober when he picks up this time. "Hello, Sherlock?"

"You managed to save my number, in your state? I'm surprised."

"You're taking cocaine simply to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay, and you are telling me what I can or can't do? Aren't we quite the little hypocrite?"

Somehow, this version of his DI is the only thing in this deranged reality that brings a smile to Sherlock's lips, if only for a very short time. He had to tell Greg the truth. "I found John."

"And? Is everything well again? Are the birds singing from the trees, and your epic bromance is back on track? What happened?"

"He told me to piss off." He can tell, he can feel that the DI is struggling against the urge to say something cynical, and wins, but only just. There must have been something in Sherlock's voice that told him that he shouldn't make any fun of this.

"For what it's worth – and I suspect it isn't worth much – I'm sorry". And he really is, though he most certainly has problems expressing it.

"I know, Greg. Thanks."

"So... what happens now? You off to find a voodoo-doctor or something?"

"I"... this is the difficult part. He has to tell Greg about his agreement with Mycroft, but he doesn't want to give the DI the feeling he's abandoning him. "I came to an agreement with my brother. Twenty-four hours to prove to... myself really, that this life is real, then, if I didn't manage to do that, I come back to his house and detox."

Silence on the other hand, then a humourless chuckle. "Well, it was a nice dream, at least. Can't say I have had such a nice one for a couple of years."

"Greg, I..." Sherlock isn't sure what to say, he's never been good at holding meaningful conversations. About feelings and relationship and similar things, that is. But the DI interrupts him. "And where are you spending the night?"

"I was hoping..."

"Thought you'd have a reason to call. But, sure, come and stay. Nothing like drinking yourself into a stupor while someone else shoots up next to you. Plus, you are the only person you've had a conversation with longer than "How are you?" "Fine." for over five years. So, before you disappear again, might as well spend some time together."

He says "Thank you" and hangs up. He's still got Greg, at least.

_He's trying to make the imbecile of a police man understand that he needs his help bringing down an international weapon's dealer's syndicate, and, though he'll never tell him, he really really misses Lestrade. The DI would already have sent at least one car..._

Half an hour later, he is at Greg's, after having picked the lock, because no one opened him when he knocked (he's knocking on doors, thanking people, trying to be polite. His John would be proud. But his John doesn't exist).

The DI comes back ten minutes after, carrying shopping bags in his hand. "The shop was still open. Thought we could have a proper meal, at least. Can't remember when I had that the last time..."

"Two weeks ago" Sherlock says, matter-of-factly.

Greg laughs. "you know what, you get yourself clean, I'll stop drinking and we become the best PIs this city has ever seen."

"Are you sure the Yard can function without you, Inspector?"

"They can try, and hey, if they can't, more cases for us, right?"

Greg disappears into the kitchen, and Sherlock can hear him mumbling to himself as he prepares something. He can feel the high declining – he took less cocaine in the restroom, because he wanted to talk to John as sober as possible without suffering any withdrawal symptoms. He takes out the needle. "Greg, do you mind – "

"No, no, just go ahead. I need a beer myself. Just shut up and shoot up" Greg calls out, and Sherlock, because the whole situation is so surreal, can't help asking "Do you want me to go to the toilet, or – "

"Hey, be my guest. Wherever you like to inject. I don't mind, as long as I don't get any of this stuff in my body. I'm strictly anti-drugs."

"Except for booze".

"Depends on your definition of the word "drug", sunshine."

So Sherlock smiles and shrugs and shoots up in Greg's living room, while the DI takes out another bottle from the fridge.

How wonderfully domestic, all in all.

He takes more this time, the high will most likely last for several hours. But he's careful not to take too much – he'd rather not die, even in this world, thank you very much.

He pushes the needle into his flesh and presses the plunger –

" **Well, haven't you spoken to Mr. Holmes's brother? I have every right to be here and to make sure everything's fine. And I tell you, you are giving him too much. So please – I won't ask again this nicely. Less – "  
But he's stopped listening, because he recognizes the voice of the blond man, and is wondering what he's doing here, wherever here is, that is – **

"Hey, no passing out high as a kite as long as I'm still conscious enough to realize" Lestrade pokes at him with his bottle – really, he shouldn't make a habit out of that.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

They eat mostly in silence, though now and then they talk of trivial matters, mostly Greg's life before Sherlock turned up, because he's curious about that ("Nothing to tell, really, mate. Get drunk, get sober, buy more bottles to get drunk again. Rather simple, my friend").

Once, and only once, they talk about the future, when Greg suddenly shoots him a strange glance. "Once you're... clean... will you call? Or come by?"

"I will. I promise."

"Well, you kept your last one, so..."

"Maybe" Sherlock says, though he doesn't really know why, because he doesn't think Mycroft would appreciate this particular acquaintance "You can visit me, once the worst is over. I'll be in touch."

The DI nods, and then they talk of something else.

It's after dinner, when Greg is at his third bottle, that everything, once again, changes.

"You know what, I don't think I have been so sober at this hour for the last few years. I might even go to the Yard tomorrow. See if Anderson and Donavan are getting on well with the Brackenstall case."

Sherlock's heart, he chooses to allow himself such a silly unscientific expression for the time being, misses a beat.

"Did you just say... Brackenstall?"

"Yes, the MP who was found murdered yesterday afternoon."

Sherlock's heart decides to make up for the missed beat by beating frantically all of a sudden.

"Greg... the case only made the news today, or was there anything in the papers yesterday?"

"We managed to keep the press at bay. Some sort of news blackout... The Chief Superintendent knows the editor of some big paper or another, didn't really pay attention when they told me, needed a drink. Why?"

Sherlock smiles and laughs in delight, he feels like dancing. Because if there was no news of this murder yesterday, than he can't have heard about it. Because he doesn't work with the police in this reality.

Which means...

Which means he can't have made up Lestrade's call with the particulars of the case.

His life with John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, annoying Mycroft, solving...

It was real.


	12. Chapter 12

„You alright, mate? You like kind of spaced out…" Greg eyes Sherlock while he takes another sip of his beer bottle.

"The Brackenwell case" Sherlock answers, still staring at the wall.

"Yeah, like I just said, MP killed, wife says it was a gang of robbers. What about it?"

"I know this case, I mean, I know _about_ this case. You called me in on it, the day before I... woke up in this life."

"In your old life as a "consulting detective", you mean? When this John was your BFF and I was your baby-sitter?" Sherlock huffs indignantly.

"You weren't my baby-sitter, you were my friend."

"Fine, whatever, this other life anyway, where neither you nor I were addicted to substances that will eventually kill us".

"Correct".

"I may not be sober – let's face the truth, I'm practically never sober nowadays – but this takes a lot of suspension of disbelief, 'Lock."

"Could you please stop using that nickname? I assumed you were simply too drunk to remember my first name when you used it when I called you for the first time."

Greg looks at him innocently. "Well, yes, I was... But I still kind of like it. Your real first name is kind of hard to pronounce when you're under the influence of alcohol, don't get me wrong, but I think it suits you. And be honest: How many nicknames were you called because the person who used it _liked_ you?"

Sherlock can't find an answer to this immediately. He has been called a number of things in the course of his life – freak, weirdo, psychopath, sociopath (if someone wanted to be clever), idiot, unbearable, unlikeable, unlovable, and various other things. But he's never had a nickname bestowed on him by a friend.

"None". Greg looks at him expectantly, and Sherlock sighs.

"Alright, then. Just... don't use it too often. Please."

"Sure thing, 'Locky." Greg sniggers at his expression. "Sorry, just wanted to see how you reacted. Won't use that one again, I promise."

"Good."

Greg looks first at his bottle, then at Sherlock, and decides to put it on the floor. That's a first. Sherlock hasn't seen his eyes this alive, either, since he picked his lock this morning.

"So, you are saying, that... What you told me about... it was real? Because you know the case?"

"Because I know something I wouldn't be able to, if this was real. See, if this was my real life, then I would have no way of knowing the particulars of Brackenwell's murder, seeing as there was a news blackout."

"Which particulars?"

Sherlock tells him. Greg exhales slowly. "Right, that's even more than I know about it – well, I was drunk at the crime scene, so I guess that explains it. So, you were saying, because you know everything about this case, even though you shouldn't..."

"Greg, I know you can understand this if you try to" Sherlock says, patiently. Knocking on doors, being polite, being patient, talking with Mycroft in an actually brotherly way... he must tell John about this, when he gets home. His doctor won't believe it, but the expression on his face will certainly be worth it.

"I wake up here, a cocaine addict" Sherlock resumes, "and it looks like all the memories I have of my life as a consulting detective where merely hallucinations. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes".

"Good. Now, you tell me about this case, and I know all the particulars... _Even though, so far, there has been no news coverage of it_. So, I couldn't have heard about it. And, because I couldn't have heard about it..."

"The information can't have made its way into your hallucination" Greg interrupts, finally understanding, "at least not this accurate. You can't hallucinate correctly about something you don't know of. So, therefore..."

"This world must be the hallucination, the different dimension, whatever you want to call it" Sherlock concludes. "So..."

""So" is a good word, my friend" Greg says, still cynical, but eyes wonderfully ablaze and _alive_ , "because... Alright, let's say your happy little dream of you and me and this John and your landlady and the crime solving rate at the Yard is the reality, and this is the hallucination – or, whatever it is, it's not real. So far, so good. But... What do you want to do now? How do you propose to get back to this... wonderful brave new world? Are you going to..."

And suddenly, Greg looks pained and worried and Sherlock needs a moment to realize what the DI means.

"You wish to know if I am going to kill myself?" Greg winces. "I'm right, then. Well, it would probably be one way to return to reality, but on the other hand..." he trails of, staring into the distance.

"Yes?" Greg prompts.

"There are too many variables. I could wake up in the real world – or fall deeper into the coma or whatever situation that made me invent this world. I could die, too, because my brain could interpret the suicide as... well, just that. It's too unsafe".

"When you say that, it must be _really_ unsafe" Greg answers, "But I must admit that I am kind of relived... So, what do you plan to do?"

Sherlock hesitates. Not because Greg might be uncomfortable with the answer – he suspects that, at this point, the Di would do anything he wants him to – but because he isn't really sure. Finding John was a dead end; the only thing he really knows in this world is what he knows because he knew about it in the real world first –

The case.

And, just like that, everything is clear. Or as clear as it can be, under these circumstances, anyway.

"The Brackenstall case".

"What about it?"

"We need to solve it. Call me in, like you sued to do in my old life."

Greg laughs. "And how should I explain this? "Hey, guys, I know, I addicted to alcohol, so I brought someone who's addicted to cocaine along to even things out." Along those lines?"

"Yes – it's not like you care about the job, or your colleagues, really. But you do care about me – and I'm starting to suspect that you're the first thing you have cared about properly in years." Sherlock says it matter-of-factly, and Greg shrugs his shoulders. "I suppose you are right. So..."

"so you show me the crime scene and the evidence, and – I think it would be best if neither Anderson nor Donavan found out what is going on".

"I agree with you there, 'Lock. I guess you'll want to see the crime scene first?"

"Yes, but preferably in daylight. I don't want to miss any evidence your lot might have missed because we have to use a flashlight". "How did you know that the robbers turned off the power by jamming a knife into the fuse box?" Sherlock just looks at him. "Right, I told you. Or the "real version" of me, anyway." Greg sighs, but it's rather of exasperation than of hopelessness or disbelief.

"So you stay here for the night, and tomorrow, we'll go to the crime scene."

"If it's still preserved, that is."

"Lady Brackenstall wanted her house back almost immediately, but I refused... it was one of my more sober moments."

"And one of your more clever ones, too. So... Lady Brackenstall wanted to return to the crime scene almost immediately. Interesting."

Sherlock adopts his "thinking pose", as John dubbed it. Greg eyes him, his expression still one of hopefulness and excitement. "Good, then... Nothing against an investigation without Anderson or Donavan. A bit annoying, those two."

"You have no idea" Sherlock smirks.

" _Your back, now please!"_

So, the husband was found murdered, the wife next to him...

" _Oh God know, Maurice!" The wife of the recently deceased gang boss storms out of the house, and Sherlock frowns. He hates killing people close to home, but he didn't have a choice; he can hear her sobs all the way down the street..._

"What happened to you, anyway?" Greg asks, out of the blue.

"What do you mean?"

"You get lost in your head sometimes, and your eyes get that haunted look when you do. What is going on?"

"You mean, aside from..."

"Yeah, wrong world here, cocaine addict there, you are remembering something you don't want to remember. What is going on?"

"I..." Sherlock hesitates once again. How could he explain it? "You remember the cabbie who forced people to commit suicide, sort of, Jeff Hope?"

"Yes, you told me about him shortly after lunch. What has this got to do with anything?"

"It... He was persuaded by someone to kill all these people. Someone who controlled – and, in this world, I guess, still controls – almost every crime committed in London. His name was Moriarty. James Moriarty."

Greg shakes his head. "Never heard of him".

"You wouldn't have. He's quite intelligent. Anyway... in my reality, he made people believe I was a fraud and committed suicide in front of me, but not before telling me I had to jump off a building in order to save the life of my friends..." Sherlock, who's never really noticed something like this before when he was in the middle of a monologue, sees the unspoken question in the DIs eyes. "Including you". Greg looks absurdly happy considering the story he's listening to, and Sherlock is absurdly happy that he told him the truth. He never told his DI the truth, now that he thinks about it. He should once he returns to his real life.

"And, then, in order to return from the "dead", I had to destroy Moriarty's web – he had associates all over the world, you see, and it took me three years to find and dispose of them all."

"And by "dispose" you mean – "

"Whatever was necessary... Arrests, Threats, or..."

Sherlock's palms feel wet, when has he started sweating? He's still high, and he's feeling otherwise well, so why...

Greg waves a hand. "I understand. You don't have to finish the sentence."

"It wasn't... what I wanted. Do you believe me?"

"I have believed far more unbelievable things today, 'Lock. Plus, I don't think you would ever want to kill anyone."

Sherlock laughs, a short, bitter laugh. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath, Greg, so I..."

"Bullshit".

It's not a question, it's not even a simple word; it's just a statement, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Come on, my friend, you can't honestly expect me to believe that you're a sociopath – and I'm the one who believes, or wants to believe, the whole "this reality isn't real" thing. For example, you wake up in a strange world, a cocaine addict, confused, suffering from withdrawal symptoms, cold – and what is the first thing you do? You jump up and go looking for your friends. And when this... Moriarty forced you to jump and told you otherwise your friends would die, you jumped. And you spend three years hiding and... hunting his web so that you could return to them. And you obviously didn't tell anyone you were alive so nobody would be put in danger.  
Because that's what sociopaths do: Continually putting the welfare of others before their own. So, don't try to tell me any of this bullshit, again. You are not a sociopath, and you regret what you had to do, but you're happy your friends stayed safe while you did it."

**The room, the vaguely familiar silver-haired guy talking to the blond man. "I know, he was irresponsible as always, but... we got –"**

He tears himself away from the ... vision and thinks about what Greg just said.

Sherlock starts to protest, but the DI simply raises a hand. "Forget it, 'Lock, you picked me up from the floor and made me something to eat, remember? That is, of course, another sign of sociopathy."

Sherlock closes his mouth, and Greg smirks triumphantly. "See? Bullshit, and you know it." Then he seems to think of something else. "Didn't you say something about an agreement between you and that brother of yours? Big Brother, who knows everything? Might want to let him know that you were right all along, so you want come and try to detox in his house."

"You are right". Sherlock pulls out his phone and decides that it'll be easier to text. At least Mycroft won't shout at him that way. Luckily, his brother has saved his mobile number in the phone, so no problem there.

He keeps it short and to the point.

_Found my proof. I won't come tomorrow, but I'll stay in touch. Try to trust me  
S._

It takes Mycroft less than a minute to reply.

_Figured you would. Please do. I don't know if I can, but I'll try.  
Mycroft._

It's good enough. For now, anyway. He nods at Greg, who's clearly still worried somebody might come to fetch him away. He smiles relieved, and Sherlock answers the smile with one of his own.

Greg picks up his bottle and toasts him. "So, it's the druggie and the drunkard against the world. Fine by me."

For the time being, Sherlock reflects as he settles in to wait until daylight, it might be fine by him, too.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock actually falls asleep at some point during the night – he wanted to stay up thinking about the case (and, in his real life, would undoubtedly have done so, much to John's chagrin), but everything that has happened so far finally caught up with him.

Greg is nice enough to tuck him in on the sofa, then goes to bed himself – a seldom enough occasion, nowadays. Sherlock might be right, he might be crazy, or he might just be a druggie – but he's happy the younger man decided to pick his lock and make his life so much more bearable by first of all shooting up in his living room.

 _Fate works in mysterious ways_ , he muses as he slips under the covers and, once again, at the thought of Sherlock, feels something stir in his brain that refuses to come to the surface. Maybe Sherlock's right, who knows. Stranger things have – well, not exactly happened, but he has certainly read about them.

When Sherlock wakes up, it's about half past five and still dark. He stands up, feeling the coke bugs, dizziness, exhaustion and headache all over again, and remembers now we he quit all those years ago.

It wasn't just so he could work with Lestrade; there was also the fact, that, while at the beginning the cocaine had helped him to focus, over time it threatened to destroy his mind. The one thing he couldn't function without. Until everyone else – Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John, even Mycroft (again?) came into his life and effectively crippled his carefully grafted sociopathic persona, that is.

But there's nothing he can do about the withdrawal symptoms right now, other than to shoot up.

Greg stumbles out the bedroom just as he's inserting the needle and immediately rushes back in; Sherlock frowns. He can't suddenly have made up his mind that he won't help a "druggie" – he was very clear on the whole "Us Two against the world thing". So why...

"Are you quite finished?" Greg asks from the bedroom.

Sherlock presses the plunger, which he forgot to do while pondering Greg's behaviour, heard the tingling, felt the drug rush through his bloodstream, and put the needle away. "Yes, all done."

Greg comes out of the bedroom again. "Nice sight on an early morning" he grumbles, right before he walks to the kitchen and takes a beer out of the fridge.

"Because I'm the only one giving in to his addiction once again at this wonderfully early hour, you mean?" Sherlock answers as Greg returns to the living room, looking pointedly at the bottle.

Greg takes a sip. "You can't, however, deny that my dosing system is much more pleasurable".

Sherlock raises and eyebrow. "You don't have to keep doing that around me, 'Lock, I know when I'm cryptic and need to elaborate, thank you very much. It's just – " he looks at the sleeve of Sherlock's, or rather, his shirt, which is still rolled up, so he can see the little puncture wounds quite clearly, and shudders. "I'm not good with needles. They are so sharp and they go into your skin and... "

"At least my "dosing system" is quicker."

"True. Still prefer mine, though". Greg looks out the window. "So, I guess as soon as the sun comes up – or should come up, don't think we'll get any sunshine today, with these clouds – we're off to the crime scene?"

"Yes". Sherlock pauses, wondering how to phrase his next request. "Can I have – another set of your clothes, please?"

"Course you can. You're my favourite druggie, after all".

"Thanks a lot" Sherlock makes his way to the bedroom, fetches another shirt and a pair of jeans, as well as some underwear, before taking a shower.

When he comes back dressed, Greg is busy filling the contents of a whiskey bottle in a flask.

"So you are not going to run around all day carrying a beer bottle. How reassuring. But are you sure that will be enough?"

"It's my fourth flask, 'Lock. I'm good for a while. What about you? Everything all right, enough cocaine in your bloodstream?"

"For now, yes, though I might have to purchase more in the course of day and, I may need – " Greg interrupts him. "Hey, you want to get high on my money, be my guest. At least I'll make someone happy who isn't me, for a chance."

After Greg has finished filling his "lunchbox", as he calls it, they have breakfast, and Sherlock can't help but notice the irony that he's eaten more since he woke up a cocaine addict than he in did all the previous week – John was pestering him about it again when Lestrade called. He's not going to mention this to his flatmate; John would take it as an invitation to press him to eat even more often, and it's annoying enough as it is.

When they're finished, daylight, or as close to daylight as the middle of November in London usually gets, has come.

"Crime scene it is, then" Greg proclaims, while checking one more time that all his flasks are in place. "You know where it is?"

"Of course I do, I explained so much yesterday. Why?"

"Because, 'Lock dear, I am a drunkard who only did take a short look around the crime scene and didn't even take a note of the address."

"Naturally. Well, I suppose that's what you me for, now."

"The only reason I let you stay."

Then, without another word, the two leave the flat and find a cab – because, as Greg puts it, "People may look away when you ride on the tube, Sherlock – they usually don't want to look drug addicts in the eye. But someone like you and someone like me travelling together, you in this clothes and I regularly taking a sip from a flask – I think we could get quite a bit of attention." He has to agree with the DI, so they take the first cab that presents itself, and thankfully, since Sherlock is not smelling or shivering anymore, he doesn't even spare the two a glance.

They have him stop a street away from the crime scene – naturally, there will be a Constable guarding the premises and they have decided it will be easier if Greg simply sends him away.

Sherlock, hidden in the doorway of another mansion whose owners are clearly on a holiday in Spain, watches the DI going up to the PC and sending him on his way, but not before the PC looks at him surprised and asks a, by the looks of it, rather confused question. No surprise there. It must be well known at the Yard that Greg is at home getting drunk most of the time, and he certainly hasn't properly investigated a crime scene for years.

He strides over to Greg, who's grinning happily. "I think I just made his day."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, I told him to go grab a coffee – for a few hours, if he would like - and not to tell anyone I was here, which he happily promised, because Donavan and Anderson aren't very good at making friends, apparently."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least."

"Me neither".

Before they enter the house, they walk round it. Greg points to a broken window. "That's the dining room."

"I guessed as much" Sherlock answers, looking intently at the ground instead of at the window.

"Of course you did."

That said, the two duck under the crime scene tape and enter the house – Greg having obtained a key from the young PC, because "We don't need to make a habit out of you picking doors when I'm in the vicinity. Doesn't look good on the CV."

They quickly make their way to the dining room, where the dead man was found lying next to his wife bound to a chair. Sherlock only gives the hallway a glance, but it's enough for him to murmur "Interesting".

"What is, Sherlock?"

"So... They wife talked about a gang of robbers, right?"

"Yes."

"They would have needed to get in somewhere, and there are neither marks on the door nor any indication that they came through this hallway, which rules out..."

"There was a broken window in the dining room".

"Yes, and footprints of just _two men_ on the ground beneath it – and we're talking nice, moist earth here. There should have been more marks, especially when the robbers where three grown men. Or do you really think one of them insisted on being let in through the front door, when they'd already broken a window?"

Greg shakes his head.

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot." In answer, Greg simply takes out his flask.

"Still at the first one, DI Lestrade?"

"Yes. You still high and well, Mr. Holmes?"

"As a matter of fact yes, but don't worry – I may be high and euphoric, but my mental faculties aren't in any way hindered by the fact."

"Too much big words, me too big an idiot for them".

"Come on, don't act like that – practically everyone is an idiot".

"Good to know, makes me feel a lot better about myself."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Maybe we should concentrate on the task at hand?"

"No shit Sherlock. Go ahead.  
The man was lying there –" Greg indicates the marking – "his wife was bound to the chair and claims she was struck down by the robbers who weren't wearing masks, which is why we could identify them as the Randalls, around there" – he points at another part of the carpet. "She regained consciousness for a short time and saw the three drinking wine from a bottle she and her husband had wanted to open for their dinner. She, however, lost consciousness again almost immediately. When she woke up again, her husband was dead and she was alone".

Sherlock concentrates on the chair and the pieces of carpet where the body lay and where the wife should have fallen down, while Greg keeps himself in the background, to his credit actually looking for clues. Just as Sherlock is kneeling down to look at the carpet more closely –

**The room, an elderly very motherly-looking woman. "Oh, my poor boy – you better be okay, John is so worried about you, and I am too, for that matter – "**

"Hey, 'Lock, you found something there? You're staring at this piece of carpet rather curiously."

Sherlock rouses himself. He can think about Mrs. Hudson later.

"Well, there is no indication on the carpet that she fell down or lay on the carpet on any point in time. Also, there are no marks to suggest that she was dragged to the chair – and if you were a robber who'd just hit a woman and subsequently killed her husband– would you really carry her to the chair? Wouldn't it be easier to drag her?"

"Well, if there were three men here, it wouldn't have been so much trouble – "

"But why bother at all? And there is now indication that even three robbers where here..."

"What about the glasses, then?" Greg gesticulates at a little side-table, where three wine-glasses are standing.

"First of all, why bother taking the glasses out at all? They could just have taken a swig from the battle. And second... Look at the third glass!" Sherlock takes it in his gloved hand.

You can tell when a glass has been drunk from, and this one – no one took even a sip out of that. No, I think something else is far more likely..."

Greg's eyes dawn with comprehension.

"Her Ladyship lied".

"Yes, her ladyship lied" Sherlock agrees.

"So, what do we do now..."

"We go to St. Bart's."

"Why?"

"Because I need to take a look at the forensic evidence, if Anderson hasn't ruined it completely by this time."

"Fine by me". Greg takes out his flask again and takes a sip. Then he seems to think of something. "By the way, what exactly did your brother text you back yesterday?"

"Not much. He wants me to take care."

"Mmh, being at a crime scene without official permission – I don't count for the Yard, you know that – and now on your way to joyfully tamper with the evidence, still high as a kite. Oh, and accompanied by me. Does this count as "taking care" in your book?"

"Would you believe me if I said it did?"

"I already do, 'Lock. Now, come on, let's put another nail in the coffin of my career".

Five minutes later, they're on their way, with Sherlock still keeping his suspicion for himself.

The case – the crime scene was staged quite well, if you don't consider the fact that only two men could have been in that house, which could always be explained by one standing guard – they could have let him in through the front door for a drink afterwards, the carpet was very soft, so they wouldn't have left any footmarks there, it's unlikely, but not disprovable as of now - and the wineglasses, which any good lawyer could discredit if he only tried enough. And the missing marks on the carpet? Maybe her Ladyship didn't lie there long enough, same lawyer would say.

This is all – it's clever, and at the same time, someone is giving the police, through these little discrepancies, a chance to find out the truth, is inviting them to _play_ –

It seems like Sherlock has finally found out what Moriarty is doing in this world.


	14. Chapter 14

"Stop here for a moment, please!" Greg suddenly cries out. Sherlock, impatient to get to the lab he knows so well and he hopes hasn't changed as much as everything seems to have, glares at him. "Why? Is there a place where you get free beer?"

"No – but, while I freely admit I might not be the best policeman on the force, in the state I'm in, I still recognize this shadow on the corner as what he is – a drug dealer. Don't you think?"

Sherlock turns his head and, sure enough, there is a drug dealer standing on the indicated corner. It's easy to realize why he overlooked him; the familiar thrill of the chase, of a new case, is upon him, a thrill that seems to even keep the high at bay. It reminds him why he quit in the real world, in his world.

"Might as well buy yourself enough stuff to get through the day now, who knows when the chance may present itself again" Greg suggests.

"You may be right, however, I fear, I don't have quite enough – "

Greg thrusts his wallet in Sherlock's hands. "You just made me do my work properly, something no one has accomplished in the last... six years or so. Be my guest. And don't worry, I still have a card I can purchase booze with."

Sherlock decides not to comment on this and makes the shadow's day by purchasing everything he has, which might even last until tomorrow, if he economizes. As long as he can concentrate on the case without withdrawal symptoms...

Because the case, like so many other things, is the same but a little different; because he has to cling to it because it proves his world is real and this one is not; because, maybe, if he can solve it, he can get back home, back to normal.

They spend the rest of the cab ride in silence. Almost. It's broken just once.

"...Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

Greg looks at him, genuinely worried and... a bit scared? "Let's say we solve this case, but... it doesn't do anything, and you stay here, a druggie, and I'm still what I have been for years... What then?"

There is only one answer to this, and it's one Sherlock hates giving.

"I don't know".

Greg just nods, and neither of them says another word for the rest of their journey.

„Sherlock?" Greg asks, when they were finally standing in front of St Bart's, "Just out of curiosity, how should I introduce you? I don't think "This is my weird cousin" will work, and "This is a crackhead I decided to let help with the investigation" doesn't really have a nice ring to it."

"We always could..." Sherlock's eyes wander to the rooftop; he can't help himself.

" _Nobody could be that clever"._

" _You could"._

" _Goodbye, John"._

_John at the cemetery, the grief, the anger..._

_All he did, the torture, the killings, just to get back to his friends, his flat, his home, his doctor... And then..._

_Last evening, John's face, the hostility..._

" _Piss off"._

"Hey, what did I say about getting lost in your head while I am still sober enough to realize it?" Greg complains, while taking out the first flask and apparently finally emptying it.

"What?" he says when he sees Sherlock's questioning glance, "Might as well dose myself up, can't walk around in the morgue and the lab drinking. Even I still have some standards, you know – plus, the rather cute little girl who cuts up bodies for a living keeps giving me this disapproving glances whenever I show up rather not-so-sober– "

"As long as you can still stand..." Sherlock starts to answer, before he realizes something. "Wait – "cute little girl in the morgue?""

"Yeah, so what? I think she's pretty. And she's got brains. Not that she'd ever go out with me, the girl's got standards, and that's good, but still, she's nice to look at. Not that you'd get it, being asexual and all..."

But Sherlock doesn't hear most of the grumbling, really, because he knows which "girl" Greg's talking about – he still remembers how he looked at her at their Christmas party...

"Molly? Molly Hooper?"

"Yes, Molly Hooper. Why? Don't tell me she was Molly _Lestrade_ in your little perfect world, otherwise you might really make me cry."

"Stop daydreaming, Greg. Obviously she wasn't your wife – I would've told you about her."

"If you say so, 'Lock. So, how do you know her then?"

"She was... She is the medical examiner in "my little perfect world", as you put it, too, and she had a ... crush on me."

"Well..." Greg looks him up and down. "I fear that may be... a little far fetched. I don't think you can charm her in showing you the body and/or the evidence."

"But you, my dear Detective Inspector, who is actually supposed to investigate this case, could distract her for a bit, just long enough for me to..."

"No problem, that, but just how long do you need me to..."

"Could be five minutes or five hours, it's difficult to say."

"I don't think I could manage five hours, but thanks for the compliment."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm glad to hear your sex drive is still intact, at least. And I thought you had drunk away every impulse known to man."

"Not the irrational ones. I'm here with you, remember?" But Greg smiles as he says it, and Sherlock's lips twitch too.

"Nevertheless, you are aware that Molly practically lives at the lab?"

"Yes, I know how much time she spends there. Which is why _you_ are going to take her to an early lunch."

"If she wants to eat with me, that is."

"Turn your charm on Greg! Objectively speaking, you are rather attractive for a man your age."

At this, Greg opens the second flask for the first time and takes another long gulp. "First of all: Thank you for the "your age" bit. Certainly made me feel a lot better about myself."

Then, he starts walking towards the door, Sherlock following him. He doesn't say anything else, though, so that Sherlock finally gives in and asks "And secondly?"

"I'm rather glad that you told me you were asexual earlier".

"I choose not to comment, as long as you can keep Molly out of the lab."

Suddenly, Greg looks rather smug. "I will try my best".

As is turns out, he doesn't have to.

They arrive at the lab, just as Molly prepares to leave. Sherlock, once again, hides behind a corner, while the DI tries his best, like he promised. "Miss Hooper!" Greg says, smiling politely.

Molly answers his smile with one of her own, not just politely but actually happy, and Sherlock deduces her quickly, because he can feel himself getting dizzy again, and –

**The room, the blonde man, a woman beside him. "You know him, John, it's Sherlock, everything will turn out fine in the end..." "Thank you, but I fear you may be too optimistic... The treatment he got at first..."**

He shakes himself free. _Deduce. Now. Still lives with a cat... No, two cats by now. No boyfriend, but going on a lunch date... although she probably would gladly accept Lestrade's invitation. No change there, then._ Although, to be honest, there seems to be something... different about her. Sherlock's only ever seen her hopelessly infatuated with him, unsure of herself. This one... she is proud of what she has achieved, and not hampered by any silly hopeless crush. She is anything but unsure. Although, her apparent interest in an alcoholic DI certainly shows she isn't that far off from his world's "I'm going to help everyone I can see"-Molly.

Greg speaks. "I was just wondering, have you finished the autopsy of Sir Brackenstall yet?"

"As a matter of fact I have, Inspector. It's lying on my desk. But I'm really afraid I have a lunch date right now..."

Greg's face falls, only slightly but still noticeably, and Sherlock can't help but wonder at normal human beings and their relationship issues once again. At times like these, he's even more glad than usual to be asexual.

"No problem. I'll just...look at it, have a cup of coffee maybe, if that's all right with you?"

"Of course not. Make yourself at home". And with another smile, she shuffles out of the lab.

"Excellent, I couldn't have done it better" Sherlock says sarcastically, as he steps out of his hiding place.

"Don't need to remind me that I fail at asking girl out to lunch too, 'Lock."

"Trust me, you don't want to be her lunch date, anyway – the last guy she got together with in this way ( _"Jim wasn't even my boyfriend"_ resonates in his head, but he decides to ignore it for now) broke into the Tower of London, organized and almost-prison breakout and managed to get into the Bank of England..."

"You know what? Let's ignore this topic and concentrate on the task at hand – and where did I put the second flask again?"

"Left hand pocket, just above your heart".

"Excellent". He takes another sip. "What? There's nobody around, or is there?"

"Like you just said, Greg – task at hand. Does there happen to be any forensic evidence next to the autopsy report?"

Greg looks over the desk, pushing a framed picture of two rather hideous cats – he was right then – out of the way.

"Yes – how did you ever guess that?"

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "Anderson likes to have somebody else do his work."

"Well, the better for us, 'Locky."

"Don't try it too often, Greg. Now, please, give me the evidence – I will run it through the lab – and you can read the autopsy report meanwhile."

"All right. Just call if you need anything."

Sherlock nods, takes the plastic bags and makes his way to the thankfully empty lab.

He starts running the DNA that was on the swabs from the glasses – even Anderson couldn't have got that wrong – and looks at the rope that was used to tie Lady Brackenstall to the chair through a microscope.

He tries his best to push the memory of John limping into his life on that day five years ago away, he really does. But some things – as he has painfully learned ever since he returned from the dead – aren't repressed that easily.

" _Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

" _Sorry, what?"_

"Excuse me, are you all right?"

He looks up, quite surprised, because, while the person standing in front of him is one he calls one of his less intimate friends (when has it come to this, that he has enough friends to actually class them?), he somehow didn't expect to see him here.

Although he does teach at Bart's and meets John from time to time, according to the unenthusiastic blog.

Mike Stamford doesn't seem fazed by his silence. "You just looked like you... lost something of importance."

Sherlock swallows. It has always been one of Mike's greatest strength, his ability to state the obvious. It makes it almost impossible to lie to him. So he doesn't.

"I suppose I was looking for... someone. But it doesn't matter". _Not anymore_.

"Good, then... do you mind me asking what you're doing here?"

"I'm helping the police with an investigation", Sherlock answers, while simultaneously wondering how to make Mike let him stay and checking that at least this one of his friends is still the same. _Still married to sue apparently, and little David was born just when he was supposed to be, although his second name certainly isn't Sherlock._ He was touched when John told him about the little boy who was born during his time spent dead, he still is. But at least Mike's still the same, and that's something.

He's even as trustful as he always was, it appears, because he does take in Sherlock's appearance and notices he's high, of course, but he says, "You obviously know what you are doing, so I believe you. Always glad to have a new face around. Plus, nothing can faze me today. My wife is pregnant again."

He then sticks out his hand, and as Sherlock once again introduces himself to a man he has known for ten years, he decides that Mike Stamford, for all his ordinariness, might be one of the most extraordinary men he's ever met.

"I'll leave you to it, then" Mike says, gives him a little wave and is most likely off to grab his usual coffee from Starbucks. Sherlock concentrates on the evidence again.

He has no way of knowing that, just ten minutes later, Mike Stamford meets an exhausted and confused looking John Watson in the park.

"John! What are you doing here? Is everything all right?" he asks, concerned. John has been on a downward spiral ever since he came back from Afghanistan, and Mike is almost constantly worried about his old friend. And today, he looks even worse than usual.

John looks at him, then shakes his head. "It's nothing, I... Mike, I just have been up all night running through town, that's all."

"What?" Mike makes a decision, takes John with him to Starbucks, buys him a coffee and then, because he senses that John would rather be alone with him than surrounded by people, sits with him on a park bench, never mind the cold.

Only then, ignoring an odd sense of déjà vue, does he ask "Why were you running through town the whole night and this morning? What were you doing?"

John looks a little sheepish. "It's nothing, silly really, I – I suppose I was looking for... someone."

The sentence is so oddly familiar that Mike can't help but smile as he says "You are the second person to say that to me today".

To which John, looking interested in something Mike has to say for the first time in years, answers, "Who was the first?"


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock doesn't look up when the door to the lab opens; he can tell by the length of the strides that it must be Mike Stamford, and, someone else who is –

_Limping._

_John!_

He looks up so fast he's rather glad Greg isn't with them, because the DI would surely have a rather witty comment about his reaction time.

His eyes lock with John's.

Deductions start firing through his mind.

_Mud on hiss hoes and his cane, definitely feeling rather cold, but dressed warmly enough not to get hypothermia, and was apparently constantly moving during last night and this morning..._

_He must have spent all this time walking through town, looking for –_

_Me._

However, John's glance, while no longer openly hostile, doesn't give him any indication why he came looking for him in the first place. This is a different John though the one Sherlock is used to, a John he can't read as easily, one who has closed himself off from the world, one who is broken ( _like he was before they met, like he was after Sherlock's "death")_ , and this time, he might be beyond repair.

But, still, he is here.

They look at each other for a few moments longer, and Mike's "Sherlock, this is an old mate of mine – John Watson..." dies on his lips when the teacher realizes that they obviously have met before; there's no other explanation for the rather intense way they stare at one another, really.

So he coughs politely, looks at his watch, mumbles something about "Time for an early lunch" and excuses himself before slipping out quietly.

God Bless Mike Stamford. He must remember to pester John to ask his whole family – Mike, Sue and David – out to dinner once he's safely back home.

After a few seconds, John clears his throat.

"I would tell you what I've been up to since I sent you on your way last night, but I'm pretty sure you already know..."

"You were running through London, looking for... me" Sherlock answers, hope rearing its head when John nods.

"I made it into my flat – put the groceries in the kitchen – and then... Next thing I knew, I was limping as fast as I could, trying to find you. I spent the whole night and this morning trying to find you, even though I knew it was hopeless... And then I met Mike, and he said something like "You are the second person to say that to me today" when I told him I was looking for someone, and I asked who the other person was and he said "Sherlock Holmes" and I realized _I didn't even know your name_ , and thought, that's it, I'm finally going insane, and then he said "Rather strange guy, ill-fitting clothes, definitely high, if you ask me, but apparently helps the police in an investigation and definitely knows what he's doing, I just left him in the lab at Bart's" and then I begged him to take me there and he, being Mike, naturally helped me and – " John stops, flustered, and for once, Sherlock doesn't call him out on the grammar of this long and convoluted sentence.

He just looks at him and then asks just one word.

"Why?"

John sighs frustrated and runs his left hand through his hair. "I – I don't know". He looks anywhere but at Sherlock, and the spark of hope dies in his chest.

Only to be reignited a moment later.

"I guess I – It's just that..." and John looks into Sherlock's eyes again "I prefer your version of me to my version of me".

There's really not much Sherlock can say, so he just nods.

Then John clears his throat, again, and limps over to Sherlock and the microscope. "What ius it you are doing here, anyway?"

Sherlock gladly concentrates on the case. No matter how complicated, it can't be more difficult than the current situation.

"Like Mike said, I am helping the police with an investigation, and – "

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure".

"I hope you don't mind me, asking – but which policeman would allow a..." he waits for Sherlock to complete the sentence, so he provides the answer to the unspoken question, "Cocaine".

"Right, so cocaine addict to help out?"

That actually hurts, coming from John, but he manages not to wince. "I am rather good at what I do."

"I noticed". A weary smile from John. "How _did_ you know all that about me, anyway, apart from the "we were best friends in an alternate universe"-explanation? I'm still not sure I believe you, by the way."

"I can't blame you for that." Sherlock takes a breath, prepared to explain, when the door opens again.

This time, Greg walks in, thankfully not much more drunk than when Sherlock left him with the autopsy report.

"So, I've finished reading, and – " he notices John. "Is that the famous Doctor Watson?"

"Yes" Sherlock says, while John just stares at the DI as if he just grew two heads. And, Sherlock supposes, for a man who spent most of his working life in the army, where discipline and respect for one's superior are important to survive, a policeman drunk on the job must be a rather unpleasant and surprising sight.

"DI Greg Lestrade. You can call me Greg". They shake hands – though John seems to do it rather as an automated response than because he wants to be polite – and Greg turns to Sherlock, grinning broadly. "An addict, an alcoholic, and a cripple! Now all we need is a blind man, and maybe a deaf one, and we can give the Village People a run for their money!"

John blinks slowly. "Is that the policeman..."

"Who asked me to assist with the investigation, yes" Sherlock says.

John shakes his head. "I shouldn't be surprised, really".

"Are you going to stay?" Sherlock asks, anxiously.

Another weary smile from John. "I shouldn't, everything that thinks rationally in me tells me I shouldn't". Sherlock's heart thinks, and Greg seems to notice, because he shoots him a sympathetic glance.

"But..." John takes a deep breath. "I managed to walk the whole of last night and this morning, limping, yes, but I managed to do it... And I haven't been this excited or interested in someone or something since I was invalided home. So, yes, I am staying, for the time being."

"Great!" Greg exclaims, clapping a hand on John's shoulder and ignoring John's surprised twitch (he apparently isn't used to be touched). "So the merry band of misfits is reunited and going to catch the baddies! I'll drink to that". He then promptly takes out his flask – still the second one, Sherlock thinks – and takes a long gulp.

John stares, again, looks from him to Sherlock, and for a moment, he is reminded of last night, when John told him to piss off and tried limping out of his life, and –

But then John laughs quietly and shakes his head at himself. "What _have_ I got myself into?"

"Apparently, according to what you said just a minute ago, into something unbelievably more exciting than the last years of your life have been, John" Greg says, still cheerful.

"What _are_ you so happy about, anyway?" Sherlock asks.

"You mean, apart from the fact that I got my boys back? Oh, I just listened in on some morgue attendants while I was reading the report, and guess who – "

At this point, the hear someone – or rather, two someones, as Sherlock is quick to correct John, when he tells them what he just noticed – coming down the corridor, and Sherlock cowers himself next to the door so he'll be hidden by it, should it open, claiming, "John, you are here to visit Mike, Greg, you are working on the case".

"But Mike knows you are here – surely – " John says, baffled.

"John, we both know that Mike Stamford, trusting and nice man that he is, sadly does not represent the majority of people who work in a crime lab. I think most of them would be rather put out by the fact that a cocaine addict is asked to do the forensics on a case."

Noticing John's glance, the DI comments "Don't worry, John, you will get used to it. Just go along with it, when he says something like this. Trust me, it's worth it."

Luckily, the two people decide to walk past the lab, so Sherlock stands up as Greg looks through the glass panel in the door. "Told you – or wanted to, anyway. There they are!"

Sherlock looks too, and he sees Molly in conversation with –

"DI Dimmock? He's Molly's lunch date?"

"See, another reason to be cheerful – no way he could get a girl like her. Oh, and it's DS here."

"DS? When I met him, he already had been made a DI..."

"He was all right, but then he managed to make a colossal mess out of an investigation of a killer who could "walk through walls" as the press called it. So, DS it is, and likely to stay."

"I see..." Sherlock says, remembering the case John dubbed "The Blind Banker". Well, Dimmock hadn't been very helpful at first, and no, he certainly wouldn't have solved the case on his own, but still, Sherlock's a little sorry for him. The young Di wasn't without his merits, and as soon as he started taking Sherlock's words for gospel, he had been rather useful. He'd even started calling Sherlock for suggestions on cases, and in the course of time, after he returned from the dead, Dimmock did it even more frequently because, apparently, he had "never lost his belief" or something like that. So, all in all – no, he doesn't deserve to be demoted. But when he looks at John and Greg, Sherlock considers him rather lucky.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock and Greg turn around to face a now definitely very confused John Watson.

"Would you mind explaining to me what is going on? Who's Molly? Who is... this DI or DS or whatever? Just because I said I would stay, for the time being, mind you, doesn't mean I'll just let you two go on without any explanation."

Sherlock smirks at that, because he can clearly see that John's left hand already stopped shaking. Excellent.

He shares a look with Greg and requests him to watch the DNA samples and tell him when they're done while he tells John the truth.

Greg grins. "The unbelievable truth, you mean? Well, good luck. Don't worry about me, I'll just sit in the back and stare at the machine, and I have may flasks, so everything's all right."

He waits until the Di has sat down, just to make sure, then he takes a deep breath and begins.

"You see, John, we actually met five years ago..."

Silence reigns, except for Sherlock's voice, the hum of the machines, and now and then, John's exclamations, while the consulting detective explains their real story.


	16. Chapter 16

John still looks sceptical after Sherlock finishes his report – in record time too, only took him half an hour, this time – but he doesn't tell him to „Piss Off" or storm out or anything like that, so that must be a good sign.

At the end of the story, however, he shakes his head. "So... Basically, we solve crimes, I blog about it..."

"And sometimes I forget my pants" Sherlock says, smiling, remembering the time the made fun of Mycroft at the Buckingham palace.

John looks confused once more, but before he can say anything, Greg decides to comment. "You still "asexual", 'Lock, or should I leave you two alone for a while?"

John shoots him an exasperated look. "Do you have anything – really, _anything_ – to do other than drink and make sarcastic comments?"

"Sure – I have to watch the DNA-machine, remember?" Greg replies, taking another sip from his flask.

John rolls his eyes. "It's called a –"

"John, let's leave it "machine" for Greg, alright?" That earns him a genuine smile from John.

"I suppose - since our favourite Fitzgerald character reject can't even seem to remember your name right".

"Hey, it's a nickname! Plus, it's better to lull." Greg toasts John.

The doctor looks at Sherlock, raises an eyebrow – "Hey! I just got Sherlock to stop doping that, don't want to have to stop you too, mate" – and enquires: "You really take confidence out of the fact that he believes you? An alcoholic who can't go five minutes without taking a sip?"

"I heard that".

"So?"

"Nothing, just a sound analysis you've got going. I can see why Sherlock chose you as his partner in crime."

"Can we please concentrate?" Sherlock decides to try to keep them from spending all their time with bantering – otherwise they could really be called a "merry band of misfits", and that's neither what he wants not what he needs.

"On what, exactly?" John raises his hands – the right one still holding the cane, Sherlock will have to fix that as soon as possible – and looks from Sherlock to Greg and back again. "You just showed up, told me that the life as I remember it was a big mistake, I send you away, then start looking for you, I haven't slept or eaten in over a day, and when I finally find you, you tell me how my life should have been, and now you want me to accept this and move on within the space of five minutes?"

"Basically. Don't worry, he does this to everyone." Greg comments, apparently convinced that will clear everything up.

"But not everyone is an alcoholic who has no other options than to believe him because otherwise his whole life would be utterly meaningless". There is venom in John's voice, and it doesn't go unnoticed, not even by Greg. The DI stands up, makes his way towards John, and his eyes are dark, darker than Sherlock has ever seen them, and John's gaze is maybe even more hostile than it was last night, and suddenly, Sherlock is afraid.

Greg and John are friends, have been almost since the day they met, even when Greg had to arrest Sherlock and he eventually "committed suicide", John never blamed Greg. They helped each other in their grief, in a way.

But they took to each other immediately, John knew Greg's first name before Sherlock ever realized it had to be something different than "DI". So why, now, the hostility? Sure, Greg is an alcoholic, and John can't appreciate that, but Sherlock has explained everything and he hasn't commented yet on his cocaine addiction... well, except for that question why the police would want Sherlock to help, but that was legit.

So, why...

The answer hits him, suddenly, even as Greg advances more towards John.

Because they never had _him_.

They didn't know Sherlock, until now, and in a way, they still don't. So they can't bond over him, like they did in the real world. Like they should have. Which means...

Now it's Greg's turn. "Even more meaningless, you mean" he asks quietly, in that certain voice that means (Sherlock knows from experience) that the DI will very soon explode if not pacified, "than the life an ex-army doctor with a limp and a shaking hand who hasn't managed to get a job or form a relationship with anyone or even get a hobby in all the years since he returned from war?"

John is going to punch him, Sherlock just _knows_ it. He wants to go between them, but his legs don't seem to obey him –

**The room, the ceiling, the blond man, Mycroft.**

" **Something isn't right, Mycroft, his responses have decreased."**

" **You will find, John, that my brother has never been what you would "consider" normal, therefore I do not think that him not healing according to standards is a reason to worry."**

" **He is your brother, you know. You can show you are scared."**

" **I long ago learned that being scared because of something concerning Sherlock isn't an advantage".**

" **So? What about your "clean slate" then? I thought you were allowed to say you care about eatch other now?"**

**Mycroft turns away, the blond man speaks again. "I'm sorry, Mycroft..."**

" **No, you are right. Please, John, do your best".**

**Mycroft leaves the room and the man turns towards Sherlock's hospital bed...**

**Hospital. Of course.**

Suddenly, he gets a slap in the face, and in the next moment, he tastes Whiskey on his tongue. He opens his eyes and is back in the lab. Both Greg and John look at him worriedly.

"You feeling better now, 'Lock?" Greg asks, before taking a large gulp out of the flask he apparently just gave to Sherlock, and it's strangely touching that this alcoholic would share his precious booze with him. At the same time, John inquires "What happened? Your blood pressure suddenly dropped and you lost consciousness for a minute..."

Then, just as Sherlock sits up, they DI and the doctor look at each other. And burst out laughing. Which would probably make a normal person angry, his friends laughing will he still sits on the floor after a bout of unconsciousness. But Sherlock isn't a normal person, in neither world.

So, he stays there and thinks about what he's learned.

 _Hospital, of course._ It was the only explanation, really, a coma; but still, this hallucination... But wasn't there something about the wrong drug and delayed responses? Yes... He must have been treated wrongly, when John wasn't looking. So best just go along with this and hope that John and, maybe, Mycroft, find a solution to the problem soon.

When he snaps back to this form of the present, Greg and John are talking amiably.

"Thank God you caught him, I'm not as fast as I used to, and I'd probably let him fall..."

"Well, at least you knew how to take his pulse, I drunk away that knowledge years ago..."

"Sorry?" They look at Sherlock. "Can somebody please help me up? We need to talk about the case."

Greg gives him a hand and soon he is sitting on a chair, one eye still on the DNA. Then John takes the word. "The case about this MP who was murdered, right? By the robbers?"

"We don't know yet if there were any robbers" Sherlock counters.

John looks a little bit sceptical. "Good, so only two went into that house and drank the wine, doesn't mean it's not the same gang..."

"Then why did her Ladyship see three men and identify them?"

"Because..." John searches for an answer, then tries "Maybe she was confused, from the punch?"

"So she invented another robber that exactly looks like the third member of the gang?"

"What are you saying? Are you implying that..."

"Hey" Greg interrupts, "I want to help too. It's my bloody job, after all".

"You haven't done it very well, though, over the last couple of years" Sherlock shoots back.

"Girls, behave!" John says sternly, before resuming "You think that Lady..." He turns to Greg for help, the DI supplies "Brackenstall". "You think that Lady Brackenstall is lying?"

"It's the most plausible explanation, yes."

"So she just... decided she wanted to have her husband out of the way? Because..." Sherlock waves his hands.

"Not enough data. Lover, money, anything's possible."

"But, Sherlock – we need a motive, otherwise no one will take our suspicion seriously" John explains, patiently as always, and Sherlock is strangely happy that he said "our".

"Actually, I think I could help you with that" Greg says rather smugly.

"Why?" John asks, though no longer sharply, "found an Amortillado bottle in the house bar that is worth about a million pounds?"

"No, though if I did, she would be rather disappointed when she came to collect her inheritance..." Greg chuckles, then he turns serious. "I might be a drunkard – but I have been a policeman for thirty years now, and I know when bruises are older than twelve hours at the most."

"Domestic abuse, then?" Sherlock asks, his mind already calculating how many punches, how many years it took for a woman to snap and have her husband's murder arranged by a consulting criminal.

"Looks like it, at least to me. Didn't get a good look at her on the crime scene – I was kept away, and rightly so – " John looks at him "I still have some standards, John. But, when she came to my office demanding to have the house back – apparently she thought everyone would just put the bruises on her arms and her neck down to the robbers, but – they didn't look recent. A few days old, at least in my opinion".

"Well done, Greg!" Sherlock exclaims, and John shoots him a look that is not without affection. Then he turns to Greg. "Does he usually talk to you like one talks to a dog?"

Sherlock doesn't hear the answer –

" _Listen to me, you vigilante-wannabe, you will die here, slowly starve to death – or, rather, dehydration will get you first. Like a dog..."_

John wants to shake Sherlock's shoulder immediately, as soon as the consulting detective gets lost in his head, but Greg stops him. "That's not what happened before, trust me" he says under his breath. "When he does that, he is remembering something he wishes he couldn't remember".

John looks at Sherlock, who has a haunted look in his eyes. "What does he remember?"

"He only told me a little bit, and I think you should ask him yourself. Let's just say – it's not particularly nice. It's the time he barely told you anything about, the time he spent "dead"".

At this moment, just when John thinks he will get answers regardless, Sherlock seems to shake the memory off and starts talking again like nothing happened. Greg nods at John to make sure he understands that now is not the time to acknowledge what he saw.

"So, Her Ladyship had a motive and lied to the police. I think, with that, we can – "

"But, Sherlock – " John starts.

"Yes?"

"I now this may sound – well, a bit chauvinistic, but how does Lady Brackenstall know to stage a crime scene like this? I mean, is there a handbook for it somewhere or – "

"I guess Google isn't an option?" Greg asks, innocently. Then he looks at Sherlock and seems to see something. "Hey, 'Lock, that's just unfair. You have a suspicion, I can see it."

"How?" John demands, baffled.

"Don't worry, doctor, you figure that out pretty quickly."

Sherlock takes a deep breath, Greg realizing before John is another reminder that this are not the friends he remembers. But the DI is right, and he has to tell them at some point, so why not now?

"Do you remember Moriarty?"

"The criminal mastermind you just told me about?" John asks, just as Greg exclaims "You know, I drink, but I am not yet totally incapable of remembering things I was told less than two days ago".

"Yes, him" Sherlock explains, ignoring Greg. "I believe that he arranged the crime scene."

"But wouldn't he have made it perfect – at least according to your stories?" John asks.

"He could easily have made it perfect, yes, but – I think he deliberately threw in these small discrepancies. I think he's bored. He wants to play. He needs someone to notice what he's doing, so he can play with them."

"What is he, a spoilt five-year-old?" Greg inquires.

"When it comes to playing – yes, I fear, which makes him all the more dangerous and unpredictable."

"Great" John sighs, but his hand isn't shaking and, by now, he seems to put his weight on both his feet, so Sherlock doesn't think he is unhappy with the facts.

"How do we know that Moriarty even exists in this version of reality?"

"Easy, Greg – first of all, because of him, Mycroft had to retire. He helped Irene Adler, the dominatrix".

"Mycroft, the British Government, a criminal mastermind and a dominatrix" John murmurs under his breath, "Really, what have I got myself into?"

"And then..." Sherlock suddenly has an idea. "Greg, we need to get to your office."

"Well, might as well do some actual work there too, while I'm at it" the Di replies, flask in hand. "But why?" He takes another sip.

"Because we need to know what we are up against, which means I need to know what happened to the cases I solved – when I wasn't there to solve them. Plus, the DNA is going to need a while anyway, so we might as well do something productive".

"Right. Makes perfect sense." Greg shrugs, puts the flask away. And stands up. "Well, then, off we go, my friends."

Sherlock leaves the lab, and this time, in all this chaos, at least John is behind him. Like he was always supposed to be.


	17. Chapter 17

Getting into Greg's office in a way that won't arouse suspicion is more problematic than they thought. Drunkard or not, Greg is still a DI and his office is not only on the third floor, but also at the very end of said floor at the Yard. Which means they can only get to Greg's computer, and therefore access any case files Sherlock wants to see, after they have traversed a whole room full of DCs, DSs and other DIs who just dropped in for a coffee or a chat.

"And how are we supposed to do that?" John asks on their way to the Yard, after they have explained the particulars to him. Sherlock is walking in quick, long strides, like usually, Greg follows, John is limping behind them but not complaining – another sign that his psychosomatic limp is, once again, getting better."I don't think they would appreciate the truth."

"Too bad for them" Greg answers, "It's a pretty cool truth, don't you think?"

"Or one that would get everyone of us into a mental hospital".

"Don't worry" Sherlock decides to cut the discussion short "I am certain Mycroft will ensure that we get the best treatment available".

"That's something, at least..." John's phone starts ringing. He looks at the caller ID. So he must have taken it with him when he stumbled out of his flat last night. Still the responsible brother, then; Harry might annoy him more than ever, enough for him to leave his phone behind on a trip to the store, but he can't bring himself to leave it behind for a longer period of time. Sherlock allows himself a small smile; his John is slowly, very slowly, emerging from this version. "Mike".

"He will know where we are, I suppose" Sherlock says. "Answer it. Might as well have someone who keeps an eye on the evidence in the lab. Tell him he can take his paperwork there."

"How do you know that he doesn't have lessons to hold today?" John wants to know.

"Easy. If he had had any in the morning, he would have got a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, not gone to Starbucks. There wouldn't have been time. And his calling now means he is looking for us, which again implies that he isn't sitting in an auditorium somewhere. Apart from the fact that he isn't wearing a tie today, and he only wears ties when he..."

"I believe you, Sherlock, alright? You can cut the explanation" John replies and picks up, and Sherlock can't help but wince at that. His John may have got used to his deductions, but even then – there was always a certain admiration in his voice and eyes, something that told Sherlock that John cared, that he genuinely liked _him_ , not the prospect of another, better life. At least he has the consolation that Greg likes him just the way it is – though Greg in this world might like anyone who happens to come to him and tell him a good story.

"Mike? No, everything's alright... Yes, we're okay, and yes, I did look for Sherlock last night... yes, we're together. And we have DI Lestrade with us, so you don't have to..." John is silent. "Good, so you have heard about him, but still, you don't need to worry about us. We're on our way to the Yard, actually. Listen: Could you keep an eye on Sherlock's experiment at the lab? Please? I know you have paperwork, but..." He listens. "Oh, well then... That's great, congratulations! Oh, really? Well, Good luck with that... Thank you, Mike. We'll be back as soon as we can".

"What did he say?" Greg asks, while searching for his flask.

"Left hand pocket, right above the heart, Greg, have you already forgotten?"

"Oh, I thought I had finished that one – thank God I have my new little consulting detective with me."

John decides not to give their little dialogue any attention. "He doesn't have anything against it, because his wife is visiting her mother anyway because she's expecting their second child – didn't know that – and because he wants to find out how Molly's lunch date with this DS went, because he saw them in the cafeteria, and he thinks she was polite, but not really interested."

"I like your friend" Greg beams.

"Could you please not indulge in your little crush? There are more important things to focus on" Sherlock complains.

"I don't have a crush. Teenage girls have crushes. I have an infatuation. That's totally different. Not that you'd understand it, 'Lock." He them empties the second flask. "Oh, and would you kindly remember, right hand pocket over the hip?"

"Sure".

"By the way, are you alright? You look a bit pale."

The coke bugs have made an appearance in the last few minutes, and Sherlock can feel himself growing cold. "I might have to shoot up in the restroom or your office."

"No problem, I'll just draw the blinds".

"Not that I want to keep you from your important discussion about your various addictions, but we're almost there, and we don't have a plan yet" John points out.

They stop walking a block or so from the Yard and try to come up with a plan. It's not easy, and the withdrawal symptoms are back; Sherlock is frustrated and cold and –

**Italian man, the blonde one. "But you know him, John, he got me of a murder charge, he can get out of this, too. And when he does, I'll bring you both everything on the menu right into your flat."**

**The other man smiles sadly. "Thanks, Angelo".**

" **No, I mean it, there isn't a thing in the world that's impossible for Sherlock Holmes, if he wants to".**

"Sherlock?" John looks at him funny, and Sherlock snaps back to... this reality.

It's frustrating, this seeing what is really going on and not being able to stay there. But at least John has other people to keep him company. It's touching Angelo decided to visit.

But, instead of obsessing over things he can't change, he asks, "Any ideas, Greg? I might be at the Yard quite often, but you definitely know the place longer than I do."

"Of course, we say "longer" instead of "better", knew from the start you were modest..." Suddenly, there is a glimmer in Greg's eyes.

"Sherlock..."

"No".

"Come on, it will be fun".

"For you"

"That's what I meant."

"I know, but..."

"Girls, behave! Whatever are you talking about?" John demands to know, looking rather flustered.

"Greg wants to put handcuffs on me and drag me openly through the Yard, claiming most likely that I broke into his flat or something..."

"Which would explain the clothes you are wearing." Greg adds.

"So, what, I break into your flat – the flat of a DI, mind you, by accident, just to put on a change of clothes?"

"Don't ask me, 'Lock, you are the druggie. I have no idea how your mind works."

"Because having no idea what you're doing, lulling, stumbling about and problems remembering what you did yesterday are not symptoms of alcoholism".

"And who should I be in this great plan of yours?" John interrupts. "Good God, you two banter more than a couple in a romantic comedy."

"He is asexual, try to remember that, John. And – well, you could be his social worker!" Greg looks like he is convinced he's just found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. John's jaw dropped.

"I can be _what_?"

"Well, Sherlock's homeless in this world, right? And aren't there people who spend their time looking after them? Help them? Give them clean needles and so on, as well as their phone numbers so they can call when anything happens? Sherlock could've given me your number, I would have called you..."

"Alright, but who would believe..."

He notices the disbelieving looks Sherlock and Greg send his way.

"What?"

"Well, mate" Greg says, looking for the third flask (It's in..." "I know") "don't get me wrong, but something about simply says _doctor_ , even after all this time. And you look a bit down on your luck yourself, and that's how they usually look. Plus, you have been the voice of reason ever since you came into the lab, so... Fits all the criteria, in my opinion. All you have to do is look concerned, and maybe a little pissed."

"I don't think that's going to be very difficult..."

"There you go! I'll drink to that" And he does just that, before they turn to Sherlock. The consulting detective shoots them a death glare.

"You can't be serious. You don't even have handcuffs with you..."

Greg searches in his pockets and then finally fishes out a pair of handcuffs. "Oh, so that's where they were... Interesting". He looks like a child on Christmas as he takes a step towards Sherlock, who takes a step back, huffing indignantly.

"I really don't think". No, he doesn't think he _feels_ , never a safe occupation, He doesn't want to be taken into the Yard, the scene of so many of his triumphs, in handcuffs.

"Sherlock Holmes, let me put the cuffs on you or there's no shooting up in my office or my flat later!" Greg threatens.

Sherlock sighs. There is no other way..

"Fine".

So he suffers that the handcuffs are put on him and he is led to Lestrade's office. Greg and John act well, the DI looks angry and aloof, John concerned and a little pissed at Sherlock, and Sherlock just... looks like he is suffering withdrawal symptoms, and since the headache has made a reappearance at this point, that's not to difficult.

Though, to be honest, most people seem to surprised to actually see Greg at the Yard to think about why he is there.

Anderson and Donovan, thank God, are nowhere in sight.

They make it to the office without anybody blocking their way or demanding an explanation, and Greg lets down the blinds.

Sherlock does what he has to do, though John winces and demonstratively turns his back, while Greg tries to look at everything but the needle. He takes a gulp of the third flask instead.

"Just how many more of those do you have?" John inquires.

"Only this one, and another one. Might have to buy some backup later"

"Of course".

"All done, the needle is back in my pocket and I'm high, can we now please look after my old cases?"

"As you wish, sir" Greg salutes him and accesses the yard's intern database.

And Sherlock, because he remembers what he saw earlier, says the name of someone he considers a friend.

He tries not to show too much emotion when he reads that Angelo's been imprisoned for eight years now, for a murder he didn't commit. Tries to, but his vision goes a little blurry. Just a little.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John looks worried. Good. Worried John he is familiar with. Worried John he can handle.

"It's just " – he clears his throat – "He is a friend. An innocent".

"But he could never prove an alibi!" Greg looks at him.

"Because he was breaking into a house at the time, Lestrade".

"Greg, 'Lock".

"Whatever. Please look up the following cases..."

And so it goes on, for an hour.

Jeff Hope – never caught.

The Black Lotus – nobody even knows they are in the city, and, as a Google search proves, the Empress' pin is still missing. And the two cases – Van Coon, Lukas, their murders went unsolved. And Dimmock got demoted.

Irene Adler – Sherlock already knows how that ended. Mycroft left without anything to do.

Henry Knight – committed suicide after being locked in a mental institute.

True, all the "games" Moriarty played with him didn't happen, but instead...

So many unsolved murders – and they find at least thirty undetected one too in this hour. So much pain. So much that never should have happened, couldn't happen anymore in the real world because Sherlock fought and fought and fought so that Moriarty and his web would be destroyed for good.

He is dizzy for a moment, then he explains everything to John and Greg, and ends it with "we need to draw him out".

"But how?" John wants to know.

Sherlock grins. "We have DI Lestrade scare Lady Brackenstall".

Greg's eyes are alight, and John seems to believe him.

The game is on.

And this time definitely for the very last time.


	18. Chapter 18

„Okay, so I scare her Ladyship into calling the big bad consulting criminal, making myself a target in the process, all while drinking just enough Whiskey to keep my wits and yet not lose them at the same time… So far, so easy" Greg says.

„Easy…" John mutters.

„I do admit that the plan could easily backfire, especially in our present condition" Sherlock answers. "But we have to do our outmost to rid the town – and, effectively, the world – of the Napoleon of crime."

"Then why not go to the police" John demands, "the _real_ police, I mean?" He shoots Greg a glance. "Sorry."

"Don't worry mate, I have drunk too much in – well, let's be honest, in the last several years to get all teary-eyed because of a little insult. Wasn't even a good one. Sherlock's far more inventive."

"I told you, everyone's an idiot."

"By your standards, 'Lock, and that's not exactly..."

"Why not go to the police?" John interrupts impatiently, and Sherlock is once again reminded of his John, who rather enjoys banter, especially when he can participate. This one, though... maybe he's too broken. Maybe he's too annoyed. Maybe he doesn't even really believe in them, in their friendship. And that – that just _hurts_ , because even when Sherlock was dead, John believed in him; how vividly he remembers John's goodbye at the cemetery...

But he can't be sentimental now, not when Moriarty is here... even if "here" only exists in his mind. An existing Moriarty could do all sorts of damage there, he doesn't doubt that.

"And how do you propose to convince the police?"

"Evidence? There has to be some kind of evidence" John says, frustrated.

"Moriarty doesn't leave behind _evidence_. He only left clues at the Brackenstall's because he was bored."

"You mean: bored like a drug addict who has to make up archenemies so his life isn't the failure it appears to be?"

Sherlock recoils like John just hit him, and in a way, he did. To hear those words, coming from him...

"Hey!" Greg sounds... angry. But somehow even more dangerous than in the lab, when John verbally attacked the DI himself. "If you're not ready to help, you better leave now, mate. I'm rather drunk and can therefore not be held responsible for my actions."

"I just..." John tries to say something, regret already in his eyes, but Greg interrupts him. "If you're so lonely that you run through town a whole night just to insult the person you've been searching – you're even more pathetic than I am, and that's saying something."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock" John says, instead of acknowledging Greg's rant. "It's just... this is all so new and weird and unbelievably exciting and I haven't really spoken to anyone in years and... Sherlock, I'm sorry. I shouldn't take my frustration out on you –" a short silence. "Or Greg".

"Thanks for the significant pause there, mate. But alright. Sherlock, what do you think?"

"It's fine. It's all fine." No, it isn't, but he'll take what he can get. "Thanks, Greg"

"Hey, you got me into my office – comparatively sober. I'd do anything for you."

But before Sherlock can answer, or elaborate further on the lack of evidence, the door opens and the "real police" as John put it storms in. In the shape of Sally Donavan, no less.

Sherlock doesn't even have the time to think of an explanation or a snide remark, which is a first when it comes to the Sergeant, she starts glaring daggers at Greg. "Lestrade, I just heard you had dragged a drug addict – and a high one, at that – into your office because he had broken into your flat, without paying attention to the fact that you should either have called an ambulance – for all you know, he could be dying of an overdose right know – or the colleagues in uniform? No, you just decided to drag a small-time criminal and his _social worker_ – who definitely has better things to do – in your office, never mind that..."

But Sherlock doesn't hear the rest of the rant, because he is too busy trying to process that Sally Donavan is _defending_ him. Against Greg of all people.

Thankfully John decides to step in. "It's all been cleared up, thank you – "

"Sergeant. Sergeant Donavan."

"Right. So, Sergeant Donavan, I will take... Ben here" (clever not to use real names, thank you, John) "to our doctor, and DI Lestrade, if he chooses, can accompany us, to make sure I don't help him to escape or something like that".

"Good." Donavan answers, and her eyes are glittering with hope that Sherlock will actually escape and she'll be the DI soon.

They leave the office quickly, pass a sneering Anderson on the way – so at least he hasn't changed – and get out of the Yard as fast as they can. "Good thinking, John" Sherlock praises.

"Thanks, just popped into my head – I might be better at this stuff than I realized."

"While you are still handing out compliments, what about me? I think I made a great job of standing around and pretending to be drunk".

"Because you are drunk".

"Doesn't make it any less true, 'Lock".

"Right, so, really really great job imitating an alcoholic Greg, so where to now?" John asks, eagerly. This is more like Sherlock's John, and he takes comfort in that.

"St Bart's – while I do not believe Moriarty left any real evidence behind, I am rather curious about what the DNA-test gives us."

"Great! If I get killed tomorrow by a criminal mastermind – at least I'll have had another chance to look at a pretty girl" Greg takes a sip.

Sherlock and John look at each other, but, surprisingly not without affection.

So they make their way back.

Mike is waiting for them in the lab, still smiling pleasantly and looking at John like he hasn't seen him this happy in a long time, which, Sherlock supposes, is the truth.

"DNA just came through."

"Great, thanks, Mike" Sherlock says, at the same time that Greg asks "How did Molly's lunch date go?"

Mike shoots John a glance, who nods, but just when he opens his mouth, Molly comes in.

"Oh, hi, Mike, I didn't know... Oh, hello, DI Lestrade" She looks slightly flustered and John and Sherlock look at each other, than at Mike. Then all of them roll their eyes.

"Seriously, I think she'd even get him off the booze" John mouths at Sherlock, who winks.

"Hello, Molly, I don't think you've met..."

At this moment, DI – no, DS – Dimmock strolls in.

"Hey, Molly, I thought we could meet at the Fox... about six-ish?"

Molly looks at him, then at Greg, clearly asking for help. Because the Di is too busy staring at her to notice, John clears his throat.

"Actually, I'm rather sorry, but we need her help in an investigation..."

"And you are?" Dimmock inquires, rather annoyed.

"I'm – Martin. Forensics. New."

"Good, then – Molly, we'll be in touch, yes?"

"Sure" she answers, smiling at John and then at Greg before she nods at Dimmock.

He leaves and Greg resumes. "I don't think you've met John and Sherlock..." indicating which is which with his hands "They're helping me in the Brackenstall case".

"Oh, the murdered MP..." Molly suddenly looks sheepish. "I'm terribly sorry, DI – "

"Greg". "Oh, right, Greg" she smiles, and Greg actually blushes, then she looks worried "I don't know what happened to the evidence, I know, it's awful, but... It was right with the autopsy report, and next thing I know, neither is on my desk..."

"It's alright" Sherlock answers. "The evidence is here, as well as the report. Mike kept a very good eye on it."

Molly barely spares him a glance – still a bit shy around strangers, then, but Sherlock has to admit it is a strange feeling that the girl who's had a crush on him ever since he first strolled into Bart's, the girl who helped him fake his death, the girl who lied to all his friends for three long years and still regrets it, the girl who has become a friend to him somehow, doesn't even seem to care that he's in the room.

He feels guilty when he thinks about all the lies she told, and then makes a decision: He knows Lestrade is interested, he remembers the Christmas Party. Now, should he wake up and Molly is interested too...

They deserve happiness. Why not play matchmaker. It might help with the boredom. And John would most likely help to.

But he has to wake up first.

**The ceiling, the room, the silver-haired man, a young woman. "I'm worried, DI –"**

" **Call me Greg, will you? We are all Sherlock's friends, here, don't you think?" He flashes her a smile.**

" **Good, Greg then –" she blushes. "I'm worried about Sherlock, of course, but John – he seems beside himself. His brother, too. And Mrs. Hudson."**

" **I think we are all beside ourselves, Molly. Losing him once was bad enough... But losing him twice – I don't think – I couldn't"**

**She puts a hand on his arm and squeezes. He smiles at here gratefully.**

" **Sherlock came back after three years" she reminds him. "Don't worry, he'll make it back again."**

" **I hope so. I need him, God help me, but I do."**

Molly and Lestrade disappear, and he's left – again – in this strange, wrong world. Luckily, this time he didn't faint and nobody seems to have noticed. Most likely because no time has passed, since Molly is still answering Mike.

"Oh, that's good, then. Thank you, Mike"

Mike smiles at her – of course.

"No problem. And, if you don't mind me asking, how did your lunch date go?"

She smiles, though rather strained.

"He's nice enough – but – he is a bit full of himself. Kept talking about how they had treated him unfairly.

"Yes, he does that." Mike says, politely ignoring Greg pumping his fist in the air behind Molly's back.

Sherlock clears his throat.

"The DNA test?"

"Oh, right, here they are, Sherlock". Mike gives him the printout, and Sherlock reads it, then sighs.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John inquires anxiously.

"As I expected. No DNA on the third glass, but any attorney would say that Her Ladyship was confused after suffering a blow to the head. And the two other glasses confirm that two men drank the wine – two men who are closely related. Like father and son".

"But, then..." John looks confused, but Greg interrupts. "I do know how to handle police files, you know. I'm not just here for my good looks" He winks at Molly, who blushes again.

"You remember when we were looking at the case files?"

"That was less than an hour ago, Greg. I think we may be able to remember".

"Anyway, 'Lock, I checked the Randalls' police records while you were explaining something or other to John. There is everything – prior convictions, habits, pictures, etc. _But no DNA_."

"Wait – they are robbers, and no one ever bothered to take a sample?" John asks bewildered.

"Moriarty must have deleted it" Sherlock replies. "and, trust me, if somebody manages to catch them – there will be a DNA sample in the file, and it will match that on the glasses".

"He is good, I'll give him that" Greg comments, reaching in his pocket, then looking at Molly and finally deciding not to take a drink in her presence.

Before Sherlock can answer, he gets a text.

_I believe you promised me to stay in touch.  
M._

Sherlock discreetly blinks away a lone tear.

_I'm alright. I'll try to bring down Moriarty with my friends.  
S._

He doesn't expect a reply, but it comes almost immediately.

 _I want to help. Come to my house with your friends. We can come up with a plan together._  
I can even buy cocaine, if that helps.  
I don't want to lose you so soon after getting you back.  
Please delete this message and never think of it again.  
M.

Sherlock looks at John and Greg. "We're going to my brother's, he wants to help us."

"Fine by me. Does he have booze?" Greg asks, then remembers that Molly's in the room and shuts his mouth, embarrassed.

"Oh, I think everyone's got that. I always have wine in my fridge" she replies, to the surprise of all.

"Well... That's good, then" Greg answers, smiling.

Sherlock clears his throat. "We better be off. Mike, Molly..." then he remembers. "Nice meeting you."

"You too" Molly answers, still looking at Greg. Mike waves his hand. "If you need anything, just tell John to give me a call."

Then they are on their way, deciding to take a cab.

They'll never know that Mike, after having said goodbye to Molly and sent her a wink, calls his wife to tell her one thing:

John Watson is finally starting to live again.


	19. Chapter 19

„Sherlock, just to be sure, tell me again" John interrupts the silence in the cab, „we are going to the house of your brother, who used to be the British Government, before Moriarty and this – dominatrix blackmailed the Royal family and he was fired, but he's just as smart as you, and he wants to help is. Is that correct?"

"Yes, you got it" Sherlock answers rather abstractedly, lost in his thoughts.

Mycroft has never acted that way in the real world, in the world he remembers. Maybe when they were children, that is when Sherlock was four and Mycroft eleven, yes, but since his brother went to university...

So what does it mean that his subconscious apparently decided that Mycroft was the best big brother imaginable? Or that John doubted him? And Lestrade, an alcoholic with a worldview cynical enough to be invented by Oscar Wilde?

He prefers not to think about that.

Greg, meanwhile, is in great spirits, and it's not difficult to think of a reason. He doesn't have anything against Dimmock – he has ensured Sherlock and John of that at least seven times in the past five minutes – but still, he is... rather pleased that Molly doesn't want anything more from the DS.

"Did you see how she looked at me after she'd sent Dimmock on his way?"

"Yes, Greg, and I believe we told you that three times in the course of this cab ride" Sherlock explains, with a patience he never had before (wouldn't his John love this).

"Yeah" John elaborates "All you have to do now is stop drinking and off you go".

Greg shrugs his shoulders, looking for his flask. "Nobody's perfect. Sherlock, I know where it is."

Sherlock closes his mouth and looks out the window, at a London that is not his, but then again...

_London isn't the town he left three years ago, and he knows it. He is still in his disguise, because, though he'd like nothing more than to tell John or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade that he's back, Colonel Moran is still active. First of all, he has to speak to Mycroft. Then he can tell everyone else the truth. And, he supposes, it's time to send Molly a text.  
Three years. He's been alone for three years, and though he tries to hide it, these three years left traces. He's not the same man that left all of this behind three years ago..._

"John, would you do me a favour and hit him?" Greg asks, rather politely. "You're sitting next to him, and I would have to stretch over".

While John doesn't hit him – Sherlock's reaction is too quick for that – Greg's comment brings him back to this something he's supposed to call reality for now.

"Thank you, no need".

"Really? Felt like you were lost in your head again".

"How can you feel that from all the way over there?"

"All the way over John, you mean? Easy. He isn't the tallest guy around".

"John, remind me again why I ever let him come with us."

"Because he is the first one who believed in you and to have a policeman on your side is never a bad thing?"

"I suppose you are right".

They don't say anything more until they arrive at Mycroft's mansion.

Greg gets out of the cab, mouth hanging open. " _This_ is where your brother lives? 'Lock, how on earth did you ever get into drugs?"

"I don't know – in this reality" Sherlock replies, not eager to disclose that he also took drugs in his real old life.

John seems to understand, but he only shoots Sherlock a glance, without asking the obvious question "So in the other life you knew the reason?" while Greg takes another sip from his flask, just to prepare himself for meeting another Holmes.

Sherlock knocks, and the door opens immediately. He's relieved to find Mycroft in a suit, though without his umbrella, this time. He doesn't think he could have got used to his brother wearing casual.

"Sherlock. And these are..." his eyes wander over Greg and John, and Sherlock is painfully aware that his brother is as good in the art of deduction as himself.

"Yes, Mycroft, this" he gestures towards his right "is DI Greg Lestrade" who has thankfully put away his flask by now "and this" he gestures towards his left "is Doctor John Watson."

Mycroft simply says "Hello, how are you" and lets them in.

Greg, still rather open-mouthed, stares at the hall, while John, even years of loneliness and bitterness can't make him forget his manners completely, apparently, tries to make small talk with Mycroft. "You really have a beautiful house".

"Thank you" Mycroft replies, then turns to Sherlock.

"At least one of your new friends seems to be capable of a certain level of common courtesy. I'm afraid I can't say the same about... DI Lestrade here, though".

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, you'll get used to it or learn to ignore me" Greg says cheerfully. "That's how it usually goes".

"I don't doubt that".

"I hope we don't inconvenience you or the missus..." Greg obviously tries to take a page from John's book, although the effect is rather less pleasing when the one who tries to make polite conversation is once again searching for his flask.

"I live alone".

"Of course. Sherlock's brother. Sorry, forget all about that. Asexual, then?"

Mycroft shoots Sherlock a look that says "Really?" which Greg answers with "You know, I may be drunk, but I still haven't managed to drink myself blind".

"Right then. Why don't we go in the dining room. I am sure I will find you something to eat." He looks at Greg. "I have alcohol too, if you prefer liquid nourishment".

"Thank you, I do eat now and then. But I'd say nothing against something liquid to go with my nourishment."

"Naturally". Mycroft turns to Sherlock. "And... do you need..."

"No, I'm fine" Sherlock replies, and in fact, he's rather certain that his high will last for another two hours. "I have... backup too. I just need a place to..." He stops. Telling Greg he's going to shoot up is one thing, but telling his brother...

Mycroft nods. "But, nevertheless, I think you'll be happy to hear that I still have some of your old clothes upstairs... I didn't mention it yesterday because I thought..."

He reddens, and Sherlock understands. Mycroft hoped that the ill-fitted clothes he's still wearing would be another incentive for Sherlock to return; He didn't tell him before he went because he was afraid his brother would just put on his real clothes and disappear.

Luckily, Greg interrupts the moment, because Sherlock isn't sure how he would've reacted next. He could – Good God. If Greg wouldn't interrupt, maybe he's actually hug is brother. But the DI does, though John, convinced as he is that a family needs this kinds of moments, tries to stop him with a hand wave.

"Booze and I get my clothes back? I like you already."

Mycroft wisely decides to ignore this and leads them to the dining room.

Where he has already prepared all the information he ever got about Moriarty, apparently. Which leads Sherlock to discover another twenty undetected murders in the last three years. And these were not even arranged by Moriarty, he fears, but – when he sees the lack of evidence and the fact that no one, _no one_ profited from the death of his people – but actually committed by him, which means the consulting criminal broke his rule number one, "Never do anything yourself, so no one will ever get to you". Moriarty must be spiralling out of control with nothing to occupy his mind. Like his obsession with Sherlock did, in the real world.

He has nothing to do, nothing to challenge him, and now he's randomly killing people. And no one knows.

Just when Sherlock thought Moriarty couldn't be any more dangerous.

They look at their "evidence" – that would never last in court, but still, they have enough to convince themselves that Moriarty has built a web, the web Sherlock spent three years unravelling, and his stomach clenches when he wonders how much bigger that web must be now – and debate for hours what they should do. It certainly doesn't help that Greg eventually points out "You had to pretend to commit suicide to get rid of him – when you were clean and at the top of your game, 'Lock" here Mycroft raises an eyebrow "Not you, too, please. But – now? Just look at us. We're an alcoholic, a druggie, a cripple and a – " He looks at Mycroft and frowns. "A British Government that wasn't re-elected" he finally finishes the sentence.

"That was downright considerate, Inspector, I am impressed" Mycroft states. "But nonetheless – and I am aware that this is strange enough – he is right, Sherlock".

"Okay, that's it, I'm calling you My, just to annoy you" Greg comments, fishing the (by now) fourth flask out of his jacket.

"How do you know it annoys me?"

"Sherlock? He is asexual too, right? Right?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, if only to annoy Greg.

"Back to the problem at hand. We need to draw him out – and, like I said, our best bet is for Greg to scare Lady Brackenstall."

"Won't Moriarty just have his people deal with DI Lestrade?" Mycroft asks.

"Not if we make him curious – if Greg manages to let slip that someone who helps the police figured it out..."

"I understand. You are the target." John's brows furrow.

"I'm used to it. And better me than the whole population of London."

Mycroft opens his mouth and closes it again. Swallows. Stands up.

"It's getting dark. I'll see what the kitchen has to offer".

He leaves the room.

"You know, he is worried about you, Sherlock" John says.

"I'm aware of it, John, thanks." Sherlock answers, rather more abruptly than he would have liked to reply, feelings dizzy. His head hurts and his skin itches, and –

Oh. He forgot his dose in the excitement of the case. Greg seems to think they same.

"Mate, you might want to excuse yourself for a moment. You don't look your best".

Sherlock nods and makes his way to the living room.

He makes sure to take enough cocaine to last again for several hours – it's exhausting, really, this calculating and the high and the withdrawal symptoms, and he wishes, as he plunges in the needle, that he could just wake up –

" **He will wake up soon, John, he has to. It will all work out. I've known him longer than you, remember".**

" **That doesn't mean you think he's a good enough man to wake up and put us out of our misery, Greg". The voice of the blond man is cold.**

**The silver-haired man cringes. "John..."**

" **No, Greg, I'm sorry. I'm tired and I'm worried and I can't lose him again, and – "**

" **No, John, you are right. I should have noticed it when I first met him."**

" **Noticed what?"**

" **That he is a good man. No matter what other people say."**

" **Make sure not to tell him that when he wakes up, his ego probably couldn't take it."**

**There's a small smile in the voice of the blond man.**

**Sherlock tries to pull himself awake, he doesn't know why, he only realizes that it's important, but he can't, and he's pulled back under, and there's nothing he can do...**

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's hand on his shoulder. Sherlock opens his eyes and smiles. "It's nothing. I just had to..." he waves the needle.

Mycroft looks at it. "Yes. Yes. Of course." A short silence. "I'm going to make dinner, I have enough in the house."

"Great. Were you looking for me?"

"No, I just, I mean – No. I was..."

"Trying to clear your head?" Sherlock smiles bitterly. "I know the feeling".

Mycroft sits down next to him, and Sherlock recognizes the way he's sitting down; his brother wants to talk.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft sighs. "I want to believe you, I really do. But... I can't. Not really."

"I understand". He probably couldn't believe it either, if the roles were reversed. "But you will help me, doubts notwithstanding?"

"Of course". Mycroft looks at him, then says, slowly, "Sherlock, once we've caught Moriarty, and this is over – should you not be able to "return to reality"..."

"Then I would do what I promised you yesterday" Sherlock replies curtly.

Mycroft actually smiles, then squeezes his hand. "I'm glad to have you back, Sherlock". He hesitates. "Please, tell me again, I've been thinking about it the whole day... I understand that – you and I – we understood each other better in what you call the real world?"

"Not really – before I died and returned, that is. But afterwards... Like I said, a clean slate."

"A clean slate. I like that." And then Mycroft asks something that Sherlock never thought he would.

"Sherlock – how did you do it? These three years? You don't – you seem haunted".

"Because I am" and the truth rolls easily from Sherlock's tongue, maybe because he's only ever spoken about it to drunk Greg. "It's hard not to think about it – the memories have the annoying ability to tumble all over my mind palace."

"You do know you did the right thing?"

"Yes, of course."

"I don't think there's an "Of course" about it, brother mine. You should... if all this should just be a dream, a parallel universe, whatever you deign to call it – you should talk to your friends about it."

"I will. To you, too".

Mycroft squeezes his hand again, clears his throat and stands up. "Right, let's see what I can make for dinner – and which alcohol I can put into the capable hands of DI Lestrade."

"Capable?"

"Of finishing it off" Mycroft says, smiling. Then he leaves the room.

While the brothers are talking, John and Greg sit in the dining room. When Greg takes another gulp from his fourth flask, John finally asks, "How do you do it?"

"Drink? It's quite easy. I put the flask to my mouth and..."

"No. Believing Sherlock, trusting him so easily."

Greg shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know. I saw him and something just – clicked. I felt that I trusted him, even before he told me his story – I would have trusted him even without him picking me up and making me breakfast. I felt I had to believe him, and not only because my life was utterly meaningless before he showed up. Something about him just... Can't you feel it?"

John looks at Greg for a moment, then nods. "Yes, I – I ran away from the trust, really. I don't know why, but – I trust him. I do. I trusted him the moment I saw him, there on the street. I'm sure that I'll always trust him, as a matter of fact. And it scares me."

"Same here, mate. We'll just have to go on trusting him and hoping the best". Then they smile at each other and wait for the brothers to return.


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft prepares a good dinner – once again, Sherlock has to admit, maybe he should visit him more often in his world – and they try to keep up small talk during the course of it, never mind their plan of bringing down the greatest criminal London has ever seen.

But, even ignoring Moriarty, Sherlock has a rather hard time to listen, because...

God knows, he hasn't thought much about it, but he always assumed his friends would be better of without him. Well, not "always" of course. In his darkest moments. In the dark, alone, trying to bring down Moriarty's web, feeling lonely and helpless... Then, and only then, when he thought of the people he'd left behind, this awful thought had appeared...

That it would be infinitely better for his friends if they'd never met him.

In a way.

He never thought...

Greg just tells things about...  
 _Divorce._  
Unsolved cases.  
Sherlock turned his world upside down.

And John...  
 _Not being able to do anything._  
Restless.  
Unhappy.  
No purpose.  
And then a drug addict decided to talk to him.

Even Mycroft – and Sherlock was convinced, utterly convinced, that his older brother always wished he was an only child...  
 _No job._  
No occupation.  
Nothing.

Sherlock always hated stories about people who had an accident or fell into a coma or escaped death in some way or another and saw life with other eyes afterwards. But even he can't deny...

He hasn't been the same, ever since he jumped – or seems to jump – to his death off the roof of St Bart's. The day he was proved wrong all along.

The day he found out he had a heart.

And now... he's even surprised at his reactions, here, in this strange, twisted reality. He wouldn't have thought he'd be relieved that Mike Stamford of all people still lives a rather happy life, for one.

And at the same time, he isn't really surprised at all, though that doesn't make sense, because he's always cared, in a way, if only for certain people. Trying to shut oneself out from all emotions doesn't mean automatic success. He wanted to be high-functioning sociopath, but at the same time, he's always been aware that he could never really be one.

Which is probably for the best, considering the terms "sociopath" and "psychopath" seem to be interchangeable, and looking at Moriarty.

"My, I think you should kick him under the table, he's doing the lost-in-his-head thing again" Greg says, downing another glass of the Whiskey Mycroft put in front of him before dinner started.

"I am aware of my brothers' moods, Inspector, I have known him for far longer than you have".

"That may be true, but you don't do anything about it, and what's the fun in that?"

John suddenly has a look in his eyes that Sherlock knows all too well – his friend just realized that, yes, Mycroft has known his brother his whole life and may therefore be able to answer some questions the doctor has.

Sherlock also knows that nothing can stop John when he's convince he's doing the best for everyone involved.

Might as well give him an opportunity to ask his questions, then.

He excuses himself immediately after dinner to take a shower and "get out of these clothes", to which of course Greg replies, "Hey, until now they were the best you'd seen in a few years, mate".

As soon as he has left the room, Mycroft turns to John. "Alright. You have questions."

John hesitates. Even Greg is silent for once; apparently the DI is curious about Sherlock's past too.

"Mr. Holmes" John says, slowly. "Sherlock... why did he ever start to take drugs? He doesn't seem the type".

"Nice of you to ask about me too, John" Greg says sharply. "I know I don't seem the type either, but you know how it goes..."

Mycroft shoots him a glare and the DI actually shuts his mouth. Then he stands up and walks to a little side table. He opens a drawer and takes out the picture Sherlock gave him yesterday.

He shows it to them, and even Greg seems to be somewhat touched. John, for his part, just seems more confused than before – he probably assumed that Mycroft and Sherlock never got on. And who can blame him, when you look at the mess their lives have become.

"It's hard to explain" Mycroft starts, softly. "Our parents weren't very affectionate, we only ever had each other. But I'm seven years older than Sherlock – I couldn't be around him at all times. Of course, a boy like him got bullied at school and started to believe he was a "freak". I tried my best, but – it was difficult. And then I went to university, and – " he takes a deep breath and quickly makes his face appear indifferent.

Or tries to, at least.

"I think, My, you will find that the time of playacting has passed" Greg comments. "Stop it. We all know you care."

Mycroft looks at the DI and for a moment John fears he's going to provoke an argument, but then his features soften. "I suppose you are right".

He clears his throat."Sherlock was eleven when I left. We barely saw each other in the course of the next five years – I was busy getting my degree and building up connections. Though I won't deny I should have kept a closer eye on him.

I visited our mother – our father had passed away a few years prior – one day when he was sixteen – and it was then that I realized he was taking drugs. Not cocaine – not yet. But he was on his way there.

And I thought it sufficient to talk to him sternly, to reproach him. I acted like a parent he didn't want instead of like the older brother he needed.

He finished school and went to university, but, by this time, the drugs were more important to him than anything else. He left it without a degree.

By the time he was twenty, he was taking cocaine. And he never stopped.

At first, I had surveillance on him – "

"Of course you had" Greg says, but not sharply for a change. His eyes are actually rather soft, and his voice betrays a certain – understanding?

John stares at Mycroft, seemingly lost for words.

"Then –" Mycroft resumes, but has to pause for a moment. "I'm not proud of it" he finally admits. "But, in the course of time – over the years – I tried to talk him into rehab. I tried to be there for him, but he didn't want me to. So I – I stopped caring, or tried to, at least. I let him fall of the grid, because – because I couldn't bear to see him like this, because I knew it would only hurt me in the long run, because it was easier – "

His voice breaks a little and then, suddenly, John swallows and nods. "I know the feeling. My older sister – "

"Sherlock told me" Mycroft says quietly, and Greg seems to remember John's back story too and actually puts down the glass he was just raising to his lips.

"It's alright Greg, that doesn't bother me" John smiles.

"I'm not doing you because you're bothered – I'm doing it out of respect" Greg answers.

Mycroft clears his throat.

"The last straw was that he had pawned the violin I gave him for his birthday years ago. Although I did get it back – it's still in his old room, even as we speak.

"Now and then, of course, I'd notice he still was in the city. I would see him, out of the corner of my eye. I would realize someone had been in the house to use the bathroom when I returned. My wallets kept disappearing, though always the one I kept in the easier-to-access pocket, the one I didn't keep the picture in, the one where I" he falls silent.

"The one where you kept more cash so he could live comfortably for a while?" John suggests, and Mycroft nods.

"The last one went missing only a few weeks ago – I had spent the evening in the theatre. Which explains why Sherlock didn't notice something was amiss or that I didn't work anymore – naturally, I was in a suit. But this time, he took the one with the picture. I was sure – I was convinced – that he'd got rid of it. Thrown it away at best, destroyed it at the worst. Either way, I was certain I'd never see it again – " He takes the picture in his hand and looks at it.

"And then he suddenly stood in front of you holding it and everything was so unbelievable, but made sense at the same time" Greg provides, sounding far more sober than he did at the beginning of the conversation.

Mycroft looks at him. "So there's still something in you that cares?"

"My one weakness" Greg answers and smiles. Mycroft answers with a smile of his own.

"But, yes, you are quite correct. And, anyway – it' just – I prefer to have him near me. Even with all this history between us".

Meanwhile, Sherlock is taking a shower and can't help the sigh of satisfaction that escapes his lips when he feels the hot water on his skin.

Then his head starts hurting, the world spins around him –

" **No, we are not discontinuing the treatment!" The blonde man seems angry and sounds rather dangerous. "We will do anything that's necessary to help him and bring him back."**

" **I suggest you do what Doctor Watson says" Mycroft says, calm and polite as always, but there seems to be a tremor in his voice.**

" **What's going on?" The silver-haired man just entered the room, followed by the young woman, apparently they went to get coffee for everyone.**

" **They believe – they think – " The blonde man is silent and Sherlock rather wishes he could see the faces of the doctors.**

**The silver-haired man seems to glower at them. "I may not have a medical degree, but I know John Watson – you better do what he wants".**

**Sherlock can feel the pull, but he wants to stay, though he doesn't know why, he just feels it is important...**

He wakes up in the shower, the water beating on his hand.

_No. Don't discontinue the treatment. I may be stuck here forever._

He forces himself to breathe, dries and dresses himself. Then, because he doesn't yet feel capable of facing Mycroft, John and Greg, he visits his old room. He sits down on the bed. Tries to calm himself.

At least John is looking out for him. And Greg. And Mycroft. As well as Molly and Mrs. Hudson and even Angela, apparently.

He will get back. He has to get back.

Then his glance falls on the bedside table, and a grin splits his face.

Mycroft really got his violin back.

He takes comfort in the familiar feel of the instrument in his hands and starts to play. Music has always called him, given him an anchor.

Mycroft, John and Greg haven't said a word for ten minutes – but the silence is comfortable – when the music starts.

They look at each other and smile.

Sherlock can play. No doubt about that.

And there is a spark of hope in Mycroft's chests when he remembers that his brother shouldn't be able to play so well – he hasn't played for years.

Maybe there is truth in what he says, after all.

When Sherlock returns downstairs, they don't mention it.

They debate their plan.

Greg is going to visit Lady Brackenstall, early next morning, and let slip that Sherlock Holmes figured out what Moriarty did. It will make him curious, and he'll most likely want to meet Sherlock.

Then –

They agree that they don't want to be murderers, but there doesn't seem to be another option. They can't prove anything, and Moriarty won't give himself up.

Once Moriarty wants to meet Sherlock, they will check out the place, and Mycroft and John will lie in wait. Greg will be at Sherlock's side.

And then –

A dead Moriarty is better than a living one, they all know it.

But still...

Sherlock tries not to think about...

" _I'm you"_

" _Thank you" Moriarty said before he shot himself. Because he knew what this would turn Sherlock into – a murderer. A torturer. A vigilante._

He shakes his hand. None of the other mention it.

It's risky, but it's the only thing they can do.

And Sherlock is starting to suspect that –

The only way to return home is to see the case to its end.


	21. Chapter 21

The night passes quietly.

Sherlock spends it in his old room – well, „his" in the way that says „Whenever Mycroft forced me to stay overnight, this is where I was", where he found his violin – while John and Greg each occupy a guest bedroom.

Sherlock stays awake, at first. After all, he's slept rather more than average in the last few days – in a way, in the real world, he's still "sleeping", though, seeing as he is in a coma, John would probably disagree with him.

Mycroft tells him goodnight about eleven pm, though it's clear they won't go to sleep for a while.

He stays up, thinking about tomorrow, Moriarty, the treatment that's apparently gone wrong, his real world.

Cold November wind howls outside, seems to fill the room, touches his very bones, and he feels terribly alone in this world he woke up to out of the blue, despite the fact that he suddenly has three allies in his last fight against Moriarty.

However it may turn out.

He tries not to think about the various possible outcomes.

It doesn't work that well.

At one am he hears John screaming. _Of course. John never met him, which means the nightmares are still there – although he is able to put more weight on his right foot and his left hand stopped shaking._

Sherlock does what always helped John in the past – he slowly walks down the corridor and plays his violin.

The screaming stops and he knows John is asleep.

Because he hasn't anything better to do, other than try to live with the ghosts that inhabit his subconscious for yet another night, he checks up on Greg.

The DI sleeps soundly, but, for the first time in God knows how long, there's no bottle lying next to his bed on the floor, and Sherlock is grateful for that.

He closes the door and returns to his room, as quietly as possible.

Mycroft is standing in the door of his bedroom. He shares a look with Sherlock, just a look, and nods.

Sherlock nods back. Then he enters his old room and closes the door behind him.

Somehow he manages to fall asleep. His sleep is deep and dreamless, at first, but then –

**The blonde man and a stout one with glasses.**

" **Still no response" The blond man says. "I don't want to believe it, of course, but there's always the possibility that –**

**That he's slipping away." He swallows. "I caught Mrs. Hudson crying in the kitchen yesterday" he adds, sounding close to tears.**

" **John..." the other one replies. "Reactions can be delayed, you know that better than everyone else." He smiles. "You'll see, he'll be up in no time..."**

" **Thank you, Mike. It's just – thank God Mycroft made me the supervisor, I can't believe that young chap who calls himself Sherlock's "doctor" – where did he learn medicine anyway?"**

" **If I remember correctly, he was one of my students."**

" **Oh". They look at one another. "Not one I had great hopes for, though".**

**They laugh. The blonde man claps the other one on the shoulder.**

" **It's great of you to drop by... How's Sue, by the way?"**

" **She's visiting her mother". The stout guy seems to hesitate, then is silent. "Anyway, I better be off. I'm sure Sherlock will be alright when I visit the next time."**

" **Thanks, Mike. Bye".**

**The door closes.**

**He turns to Sherlock.**

" **You have to wake up soon, you know... God, Sherlock, I don't know why this is so difficult for all of us... Maybe because we lost you once already. We... I... I couldn't stand it again. Sherlock, please..."**

**He'd really like to do him the favour of waking up, but the darkness is rushing towards him again, and he can't resist...**

It's still dark outside when he wakes up, frustrated yet again. How he wishes he could just wake up and put this wrong world behind him, once and for all.

And he'll definitely have to have John take the Stamford family out to dinner now. Seems like he's always underestimated Mike.

There's a knock on the door, startling him.

"Yes?" Sherlock asks.

John enters the room, limping slightly, but without his cane – so adrenaline still works for him, apparently. Which means that, at least, he's going to get rid of his psychosomatic limp today.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I think I heard something... Are you alright?"

"Yes, thank you John. I just had – I just had a nightmare" Sherlock decides to finish the sentence, even though he can't help but wonder how this John will react.

The doctor just nods and closes the door, and suddenly Sherlock is very conscious of the fact that they haven't been together alone since Greg came into the lab.

John clears his throat. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock stands up and looks out the window, in the cold November dawn. "You have questions."

John chuckles. "Sort of, yeah, but – your brother and you are more alike than you believe".

"I doubt that".

"It's my opinion anyway. Sherlock... "

"If you wish to know how I ended up a cocaine addict, I don't know – well, I know in my world, the problem is that I can't remember anything about this one. Though I am sure that Mycroft already told you and Greg everything about it."

"Yes, he did, I mean, from his point of view, obviously, and I know you can't remember, but I was wondering if maybe you'd have an idea – it's just so unbelievable to me that someone like you could have just thrown his whole life, all his prospects away just for being high."

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "You'd be surprised what people throw away just to get high".

"I suppose so..."

John looks at Sherlock. "Sherlock... I have to tell you something."

He can feel his heart clench, and for a moment, he's scared that John doesn't want anything to do with their plan anymore.

It would be only too understandable, after all. Two days ago he didn't know Sherlock even existed, and now he's planning to kill a criminal mastermind with him.

Then John stands up straight and says "Sherlock – I don't know if I believe you, though I want to. But I trust you. Whatever happens".

He leaves the room without looking back and Sherlock is left strangely relieved.

And just a little bit scared.

If he continues to "slip away" in the real world, if he is stuck here –

What then?

He goes downstairs soon after – after he's taken a shower, dressed in another one of his old suits (there's even an old coat and a scarf in the cupboard, so he won't be forced to wear one of Mycroft's or keep wearing Greg's) and, although he wishes he didn't have to, made sure that no withdrawal symptoms will appear in the course of the next few hours.

He suspects that one of the reasons John left so abruptly was that he could see that the coke bugs were once again crawling over Sherlock's skin.

John isn't down yet, but Mycroft and Greg are in the dining room – Mycroft has prepared a small breakfast, Greg is once again filling his flasks.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock.

"I tried to – "

"He tried to make me quit, but I fear his track record of getting people to quit addictive substances isn't that good" Greg interrupts cheerfully, looking well rested. "Morning, 'Lock".

"Good morning" Sherlock replies, and suddenly realizes that if – when he returns, he's actually going to miss the stupid nickname. Though he probably won't miss the sarcastic comments at half past six in the morning all that much.

"What did I say about eye-rolling?"

"Something like "not while I'm still conscious", but considering you probably have enough alcohol in your bloodstream to knock out every other male human being, I think I'm allowed to do it now".

"Please, Sherlock, don't start to" John complains, limping in the kitchen, though his limp is certainly less bad than it was yesterday.

Mycroft shoots a look at Sherlock and nods almost imperceptibly – so Sherlock's not the only one who noticed. Although you can never say with Greg; he might notice it too and just not deem it worth his while to comment on it.

Or not.

"Hey, John, limp looking all better. Which my little preference for alcohol could be dealt with so easily too. On the other hand – I wouldn't be allowed to drink anymore then, would I?"

"No, I think not" John answers. Then he turns to Sherlock.

"Where to first?"

"After breakfast – " John looks at him, rather confused, but Greg decides to clear it all up with "Mycroft prepared something, so you will eat it!"

"Thank you, Inspector – anyway, first of all, we go to Bart's – to get the DNA tests. Greg needs something he can show her Ladyship."

"You're right there – She's upper class, so not even my charming manner and good looks could convince her that I know the truth without evidence".

"Correct. Then – Greg goes to her Ladyship, of course we won't be far off – she's staying at her mother's, isn't she?"

"Yes" Greg answers, "Lady Walter, widow of Sir James Walter, who occupied an important position in the Ministry of Defence for years".

"Naturally" Sherlock sighs.

They eat in companionable silence, then they set out – not in Mycroft's limousine, it would be too conspicuous, although Greg is rather sorry he doesn't get to try out its little bar, but in one of his smaller town cars. Mycroft is driving – John prefers not to because of his shoulder, and neither Sherlock nor Greg are in a fit state to drive, although, as Greg observes "I am pretty much used to it and Sherlock most likely has the reactions of a bat right now". That, however, fails to convince Mycroft.

On their way to Bart's they pass a street Sherlock knows all too well.

"Mycroft, stop!"

Mycroft does so and parks in Baker Street.

"What's going on, Sherlock?"

"Do you remember Mrs. Hudson? Our housek– landlady I told you about?"

"Yes?" Mycroft looks confused.

"She lives in 221B – with her alcoholic and abusive husband."

"Sherlock, considering that Moriarty could very well at this moment be killing someone else – " he takes one look at Sherlock's determined expression and sighs. "Alright".

"Want my help?" John asks, eagerly. Apparently, he's taken a liking to Mrs. Hudson just from Sherlock's story. "What's the plan?"

"Sending him on his way and scaring him enough not to return."

"I'm in, too!" Greg grins. "Can't stand those wife-beaters. And alcoholics too, of course". He takes a sip from his flask.

"Good, then. Mycroft..."

"I'd rather stay here, if you don't mind – But don't worry, I'll keep an eye on you and interfere if – "

"Trust me, Mycroft, I know" Sherlock says and exits the car with a smile on his face.

On the way to the front door, Greg searches for his ID.

"I know I had it on me when we left..." Sherlock passes him his ID with a wink. "Sorry, Greg, I couldn't resist."

He really couldn't; he hasn't nicked it in the last few months, and watching Lestrade's exasperated and yet strangely amused reaction was always fun.

Greg takes it and huffs. "Fine, but don't make a habit out of it".

They decide to simply improvise and John knocks.

As before, Mr. Hudson opens the door.

He looks first at John, and then at Greg. "What do you – " He sees Sherlock. "You again! Didn't I tell you to sod off?"

"Yes, you did, Mr. Hudson, but I think this Inspector of Scotland Yard wants a word with you."

He looks at Greg once again, then checks his ID. "Scotland Yard? Really? Why?"

"Because you are beating your wife" Greg replies smoothly.

"Now, wait a minute..." He screams down the corridor. "Hey, come here, quickly!"

Mrs. Hudson shuffles to the front door, and Sherlock's heart clenches once again at the sight of her.

He can hear John next to him drawing in a breath. He only hopes Mr. Hudson will see reason and leave; John can see red quite quickly when it comes to domestic abuse.

"Yes?" she asks, politely.

"Mrs Hudson" Greg steps between her and her husband before he can shake her by the shoulders, which he apparently wants to do – "I am informed that you are regularly a victim of domestic violence. Is that true?"

She looks flustered. "I – " She is going to deny it, Sherlock knows by the panicked look she shoots her husband. But then she sees John and Sherlock standing there – looks at Sherlock for a moment – draws a deep breath. "Yes, it's true".

Her husband wants to throw himself at her, all while screaming insults, but Greg drags her out of his reach, while John kicks him from behind and Sherlock jumps at him – finally he's lying on the floor, John and Sherlock pining him down.

"I recommend, Mr. Hudson" Greg says, pleasantly, "That you leave this house immediately and don't return. Otherwise you might find yourself in jail - and I'll make sure it's a tough one".

For a moment, it looks like he's going to argue, but then he feels the weight of two bodies pressing on him, and he nods.

They let him go and he leaves without looking back. They watch him stagger around the corner, then turn to Mrs. Hudson.

She looks at them with wide eyes. "I – thank you – but who are you?"

"Let's just say friends" Sherlock replies, smiling. "And I would have that lock changed as soon as possible, if I were you."

"I will, my dear. Thank you". She smiles, and for a moment Sherlock can see his old landlady.

"Well, we must be off. Good day, Mrs. Hudson."

"Goodbye – "

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Goodbye, Sherlock. Will I see you again?"

"Most likely" He grins and winks at her, then they walk back to the car.

"Well, that was fun" John comments. "Did you see that I kicked him with my bad leg?"

"Yes, and you had every right to" Greg answers. "Drunk at this time of day – shameful. I should know from experience".

They enter the car laughing, and Sherlock, who's sitting in the passenger's side, nods at Mycroft, who nods back and smiles.

They drive off to put their plan in motion, Mrs. Hudson still standing at the front door, following the car with her eyes and smiling.


	22. Chapter 22

They drive in silence.

Mostly.

"It's official: I haven't had that much fun in ages. Please tell me there's another old lady that needs rescuing".

"Why don't you take another drink, Greg" John suggests, but he doesn't say it sharply. His and Sherlock's eyes meet in the mirror.

And Sherlock is again left to wonder –

_What happens when it doesn't work?_

He has too little data to be able to work out what exactly is wrong with him. All he knows is that he must be in some sort of coma, with periods of half-awareness, and that his... friends are there for him, apparently 24/7.

He must make sure that John sleeps and eats enough once he's awake. Maybe a holiday? John seems to like New Zealand...

But the problem is, that, after all he's heard, it's no longer _when_ he awakes. It's _if_ he awakes.

He knows what "slipping away" means, of course, he knows the chemical and biological processes that the word death entails. But... He isn't so sure anymore that the soul is really just a concept people make up to help them with their grief.

He's stuck here and it feels so real that he isn't certain it's in his subconscious, although the idea that he actually landed in some sort of parallel universe is nothing more than ridiculous.

And still...

There is this part of him that doesn't want his subconscious to have created his world. His friends, his family... They are all, or for the most part, unhappy. Broken. And Moriarty...

Moriarty is alive and well and still controlling ever crime committed in London. Well, now he's probably controlling every crime in the United Kingdom. Aside from the fact that he's randomly killing people.

Sherlock never thought he'd wish for it, one day, but suddenly, Moriarty being obsessed with him and trying to destroy him doesn't sound so bad after all. At least he left the city mostly in peace. And he didn't kill people at random. He's losing control, of his psychopathy, maybe even of his empire, and this thought is unbelievably scary.

He swallows, tries to clear his head and says, "We're almost there. St Bart's is..."

"Turn right three streets from now" Mycroft responds. "Really, Sherlock, you are not the only one who knows the city he lives in..."

"Any chance I can get a GPS in my brain too?" Greg inquires. "Would be rather useful" He starts searching through his pockets.

"Left hip" John tells him automatically, then can't repress a chuckle.

"What?" Greg wants to know.

"Do you know that three days ago, the most exciting thing in my life was the crack in my living room wall?"

"I had more fun than you, then – I at least always had enough to drink".

"I have an alcoholic in the family, Greg".

"Not so positive, please, sunshine".

"We are here" Mycroft interrupts, a touch relieved. "Go ahead and get the evidence. I'll stay here."

"Why don't you ever – " John starts, but Sherlock answers for his brother. "Mycroft hates legwork".

"So – he is the brain of the family?" Greg asks. "Good God, remind me to stay on your good side".

"I'm fairly certain you won't forget it, Inspector, no matter how drunk you get". Mycroft waves a hand, and Sherlock, always recognizing a dismissal from his brother, exits the car, together with Greg, who stumbles a little, but doesn't look as drunk as he did when Sherlock first found him, and John, who limps a little, but seems to be getting better by the minute.

"Do you think Molly is in the vicinity?" Greg wonders, trying rather unsuccessfully to hide the hopefulness in his voice.

"If she isn't on a date with DS Dimmock" Sherlock replies, curtly.

"Bad joke, 'Lock".

"And you are not concentrating, Greg"

"I don't think any of us is concentrating" John informs them. "So, can we please go to the lab now?"

They do.

They make it to the lab without problems, but then –

Anderson and Donavan are talking to Molly, discussing the evidence, apparently. Sherlock can hear Greg swear under his breath.

Of course Donavan has already seen them, so there's no time for a retreat.

"Lestrade?" Her brows furrow when she recognizes Sherlock and John. "What are you doing here? With them?"

This time, however, Greg manages to lie smoothly.

"Taking him for a blood test, Sergeant" he replies, haughtily. "He insists that he isn't taking drugs, but I can tell just from the looks of him that this must be a lie. Because I want no one" he glares at John, who has the sense to look ashamed "to tamper with the blood test, I want it done here. Any questions?".

"No sir" Donavan answers, and when Anderson opens his mouth, she stamps on his foot. They leave with a grumbled "Goodbye" from the forensic tech – Donavan is apparently to angry to say anything.

Molly raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock notices that Greg apparently has nothing against the gesture when she's doing it. "I suppose you aren't really coming for a blood test, are you?"

"No, Molly, but I'd be most grateful if you could make us a copy of the DNA-tests on the glasses" Greg says politely.

"No problem – do you want a copy of the file with the missing DNA-profile too? I looked up the Randalls when I was searching for something I could compare the test with..."

"Molly, you are wonderful!" Sherlock exclaims; he's been debating with himself if he should ask Greg to go to the Yard and print out the file, missing DNA profile and all, rather angry that he didn't think to print it out in the first place, but he was very high at the time. He'd just shot up in Greg's office after all.

Molly smiles at him, and again it's a rather strange feeling to see the woman who has had a crush on him for years not even blush when he makes her a compliment. Then she turns to Greg, and even to Sherlock, who certainly isn't the best when it comes to interpreting emotions and relationships, it's incredibly obvious that all Greg would have to do is ask.

And quit the booze, that is.

"Just wait a moment, I have the file in the morgue", and she leaves the lab, still smiling shyly at Greg, who looks incredibly smug once the door closes behind her.

"Don't grin like the cat that got the cream, you don't even try to get it, after all" John advises him.

For a moment, Greg's face turns serious; a shadow seems to pass over his expression.

"She deserves better. That's all. I'm not going to force her to tie herself to someone who's slowly drinking himself to death."

Sherlock winces, John looks at the floor.

"You know it's true. Much as I would wish that I was the man Sherlock described – I'm not. Maybe, when the curse, so to speak, is lifted, and I am, I might make a move". Then, he suddenly grins again.

"I could call our first child Sherlock – I'm pretty sure you can call a girl that, too".

"What?" Sherlock asks indignantly. Greg shoots him a glance.

"You don't actually think many people know a name like yours even exists, right?"

Thankfully Molly enters the lab and passes Greg the file. "Here – " She colours slightly. "And the best of luck".

"Thank you, Molly" Greg says. They leave the lab, John thanking her politely, Sherlock just smiling at her gratefully.

"No problems?" Mycroft asks once they are back in the car.

"Not really, although Anderson and Donavan are definitely planning a hostile takeover" Greg answers cheerfully.

"He saw his... infatuation again" Sherlock explains to Mycroft, who just nods.

Once they are back on the street, Sherlock realizes something.

"Greg, where exactly does Lady Brackenstall's mother live?"

"Not that far off" Mycroft responds. "I knew her husband quite well. We appreciated each other's work" And Sherlock knows his brother well enough to recognize this as the big praise that it is. "He died before my dismissal. It's highly unlikely that his widow gave up the villa".

It would indeed have been highly unlikely, Sherlock concedes when he sees the "villa". It's even bigger than Mycroft's mansion and beautifully proportioned.

"I'd never have moved out" Greg exclaims, "I'd just have lived with my folks. Look at this – you can most likely get lost on the staircase."

"I wouldn't" Sherlock answers.

"Not everyone of us grew up having afternoon tea and dancing around a haunted mansion, 'Lock".

They decide that Greg will go in alone – although not quite, because Mycroft still has tiny microphones from his time as the British Government.

They hear Greg introducing himself to the servant who opens the door; he is let in immediately – neither Lady Brackenstall nor her mother are in favour of sleeping in, apparently – and led into the living room.

"Inspector... Lestrade, was it? Do you have new information?" a high voice, the woman is sure of herself, well educated, but a little bit nervous. Lady Brackenstall.

"Yes, Lady Brackenstall. We have consulted a Mr. Sherlock Holmes – he specializes in very difficult cases – and, with his help, we have formed a new hypothesis".

"A new hypothesis?" An old, shrill voice. Indignant. The mother.

"Yes... We no longer believe that the murder was committed by three robbers. Rather, it was committed by two men – "

"But there were three men! I saw them!" Lady Brackenstall gets more nervous by the minute. Excellent.

"You can't have, my lady, because only two persons drunk wine from the glasses, here is the DNA-test to confirm it" paper rustling, he shows her the test.

"Are you calling my daughter a liar?" The mother is getting angry. Either she is a very good actress or she doesn't know the truth.

"No, I am simply stating facts. Lady Brackenstall – someone killed your husband, and you wanted to put the blame on a gang of robbers who have featured rather heavily in the newspapers of late. Robbers whose DNA-profile disappeared from their file" he shows her the other paper "Just to be replaced, I am sure, by the profile we got from the glasses, when the need arises.

You husband's murder was arranged to look like a robbery gone wrong – by a very intelligent individual, no doubt. Someone who knows enough about the crimes committed in this city to make it plausible. Someone who – Someone who sits in the middle of it all, like a spider in its web".

 _Excellent, Greg,_ Sherlock thinks. As soon as Lady Brackenstall contacts Moriarty, he will want to know everything. Come looking for him. Now if Greg could only use his name –

"And, with the help of Sherlock Holmes, we realized this." The DI really has a talent for this sort of thing. "Don't worry, Lady Brackenstall, the guilty party will be held responsible for the death of your husband. I give you my word for it".

"My daughter is very tired and still upset, naturally, Inspector" the voice of the woman is harsh. "She needs to rest. I trust you can show yourself out."

Greg says goodbye and leaves the house. He turns a corner and gets into the car.

"You should have seen her face. Priceless. Do you think it worked?"

"It has to – the Moriarty I know wouldn't be able to resist this temptation." Greg still looks at them expectantly, so John finally raises himself. "Well done, Greg".

"Thank you, John" the Di grins, just as Sherlock says, "Yes, well done" and Mycroft adds "Not bad".

"Not so much praise, please". He waves a hand. "So, what now – back to My's and wait?"

"Exactly" Sherlock answers. He's never been good at waiting, but he will have to. Though he hasn't had another flash of semi -awareness for a while now, and, as Mycroft pulls the car back on the road, he starts to fear –

That his time is running out.


	23. Chapter 23

Moriarty waits a day before he calls.

A whole day in which Sherlock prowls about Mycroft's mansion, anxiously waiting for the next period of semi-awareness, and at the same time fearing it – what if he should hear that he's about to die?

And what if he really –

If he _died_ , what would happen?

He's never believed in a life after death, but then, he's never believed that the brain would come up with a whole different world while you're lying in a coma, either.

If he dies, is he stuck here?

Stuck in a world where Mycroft hasn't anything to do, and it's slowly killing him, Sherlock knows his brother and sees how sad he looks when he thinks no one can see him.  
Mycroft has always needed an occupation; he might not get bored like Sherlock, that is, he would never shoot at walls or take drugs, but his mind starts running in circles when there's nothing to think about.  
Sherlock wouldn't go so far as to say that his appearance gave Mycroft something like a purpose – but it's as close to one as he has had ever since Irene Adler walked out of the room with her phone.  
God knows what could happen if he is once again left alone.  
Sherlock chooses not to think about that.

Stuck in a world where Lestrade is an alcoholic who – it hurts to admit it, but it's obvious – is gone too far for any hope of recovery. Actually, Sherlock is rather sure the DI won't live another year. And he isn't quite prepared for how much he _cares_ about that.  
He has never thought he would stand at the DI's grave, which, of course, is rather childish, since Greg is older than him, and Sherlock – although his John seems to think differently – has never intended to die of anything different than old age.  
So, intellectually he knows that he'll most likely burry his DI one day.  
But _something_ – and he knows it's his heart, which has made several painful appearances in this strange, distorted world – in him can't abide the thought of Greg dead, and he supposes that's one of the reasons he jumped all these years ago, because when he thinks of John and Mrs. Hudson, he has the same reaction.  
Jumped. Or didn't jump. It's all rather confusing.

Stuck in a world where John is lost in his memories, and, although his limp is getting better and better in the course of the day – naturally, with every minute they get more anxious – there's still a certain hollowness in his eyes that tells Sherlock that he came just a little too late.  
John might not be suicidal anymore, but he's _broken_ and he doesn't know how to fix him.

Sometimes he plays his violin on this, the longest of his days, and tries to think of something different.

Never has a day seemed this long.

Never, not even in his three years of hiding and chasing and being chased.

And then he realizes he hasn't had trouble keeping the memories in their room for a while now, and he could laugh at the irony that now, _now_ he is able to control the memories and live in the present, when it's clear he isn't even awake and has to face his biggest challenge yet.

The others spend the day quietly.

John is mostly sitting around, legs twitching, saying nothing. When he can't stand it any longer, he goes to the kitchen and makes tea. Luckily Mycroft has a vast assortment of different teas.

Greg is drinking, though far less than what Sherlock has seen him drink till today. He only drinks enough, as he informs Sherlock, when he passes him once again on one of his strolls, "To make my hands stop shaking. I'll need a clear head for this. Though I'm not sure my hands shake because I don't drink enough – today, at least".

Mycroft is reading – though Sherlock suspects he's been on the same page of _War and Peace_ for several hours now.

He still prepares a good lunch and dinner. Sherlock forces himself to eat. They all only pick at their food, though. They can't help it.

Every few hours, Sherlock has to shoot up and hates himself when he inserts the needle. He makes sure the others don't see him when he does it; he doesn't want their pity. Or their acceptance, which is somehow even worse.

He does get caught once, however. It's his third dose of the day, somewhere between lunch and dinner, and he has tried, in vain, to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay with playing his violin for the last hour. So he gives in and takes the drug.

He's in his old room and just ready to plunge the needle in his arm when there's a knock on the door.

"Yes?" he asks.

"It's me" Greg answers, "You hanging on any needles?"

"Give me a moment" Sherlock replies, remembering Greg's problem with needles – and wondering if his DI is afraid of them too – pressing the plunger just because he has to. He can't face Moriarty in the midst of coke bugs or exhaustion or dizziness.

"Sure, I know what it means to accept and indulge your addiction". Apparently Greg takes a sip from one of his flasks, just to be sure.

He opens the door just as Sherlock hides the needle. "Appreciate the sentiment".

"Greg, what is it?"

"Sherlock... You would tell us, right? If Moriarty called, I mean". He looks pained.

"Of course I would." Sherlock reminds himself again that DI Greg Lestrade is one of the Yard's finest and knows what he is going to do – most of the time, at least.

"Well, good then". He looks at Sherlock. "'Lock – just promise me you'll be okay, even if it's not true."

"Alright then, I promise".

"Good. That's good." Greg seems to search for words, then settles on a nod. "Till then".

"Yes, till then" Sherlock replies, for once – no, for the second time in his life really, can't forget the time he had to explain to John he was a fraud – lost for words.

After dinner John decides to corner him.

"Sherlock..."

"Yes, John?" he asks, already itching for the next dose, but refusing to give in.

"Please... if it turns out that everything was just a hallucination, if you end up a cocaine addict... I want to help you. Get clean. I want to be there for you."

And Sherlock looks at him and sees a man whose last hope is a druggie who just turned up one day, so he says, "Of course."

"Thanks, Sherlock". And John just looks at him and then he hugs him for no reason and leaves the room.

Sherlock stays awake the whole night; he's quiet at breakfast, and John – just like his John – shoots him disapproving looks, because it's obvious he hasn't slept, and it makes Sherlock's skin crawl.

At about ten am he gets a text from Moriarty.

Or rather, Mycroft gets a text from Moriarty.

Or rather, every single one of Mycroft's phones suddenly gets a text from Moriarty.

Sherlock isn't surprised; of course Moriarty figured out that Sherlock doesn't own a mobile phone in this world, so he sent the texts to Mycroft, who's obviously his brother.

The text is simple.

" _Roof of St Bart's, in an hour. Come alone  
JM." _

But it's enough to make Sherlock's skin crawl without any withdrawal symptoms.

He hasn't been on the roof of that building since the one fateful day.

He doesn't want to go back there, and, of course, with this message, it's impossible for Greg to go with him.

Or for John and Mycroft to lie in waiting.

But maybe that's how it has to be.

Sherlock and Moriarty. Archenemies to the end.

So he tells his friends – Greg shrugs and takes a large gulp out of his flask, but Sherlock can tell from the look in his eyes that he's worried, John's left hand starts shaking again, and Mycroft just looks defeated, something Sherlock never thought he'd see, but then again, how often has he seen something like this in the last days? – and they decide to wait in front of St Bart's, because there's no building high enough in the vicinity to allow snipers or anyone to lie in wait, and maybe that's Moriarty's intention.

As soon as the text arrives, Mycroft drags him in another room, far from questioning glances.

"Sherlock..."

"Not you too, please."

"I am aware that DI Lestrade and Doctor Watson already spoke with you..." He looks at the floor, rather sheepishly, and Sherlock pities him. "Mycroft, what is it?"

"I was just... Sherlock, please take care. This man controls every crime committed in our great city..."

"I know".

"And he'll most likely want your death, after you found out".

"I know" Sherlock replies again, because he has no better answer, because he is aware that that's what Moriarty _does_.

"Do you want me..." Mycroft starts in his usual, detached tone, but then his voice breaks and he has to clear his throat.

"If you... shouldn't return, is there something you want me do?"

"Yes" Sherlock answers, and just like that, he knows what to say.

"Look after John – he's an adrenaline junkie, I'm sure you'll find him something to do, and try to force Greg into rehab, though I'm not too optimistic. And Mycroft..." Sherlock hesitates.

"There are enough governments who would gladly have someone like you."

Mycroft nods, his face impassive. "I know. I will take care of your... friends, I promise."

"Thank you."

Mycroft takes his hand and squeezes. Just once. Then he clears his throat again. "Better take you to Bart's. Though not without a microphone".

"Moriarty will see it immediately".

"I don't care... I don't want you to go there alone".

Which is why Sherlock finds himself, after a silent car ride, with Mycroft driving again, on the roof of St Bart's, with a microphone (naturally), and a pistol in his pocket, because he's still determined to rid the world of Moriarty once and for all, and John almost got a heart attack when he explained he had to face the criminal mastermind alone – Greg turned around so he wouldn't see his tears and took a large gulp out of his flask.

Moriarty shows up not long after Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" he asks as he steps out into the light, in a Westwood suit (of course), but strangely unfocused; his gaze wanders all over the roof, never really locking on Sherlock, and the consulting detective realizes that the consulting criminal, without him, has gone over the edge, is insane, and unpredictable, more so than ever before, and once again, he is reminded of the fact that he never thought Moriarty could get more scary than before. How wrong he'd been.

"Yes".

Moriarty takes a picture of him with his phone. "Good, then." He sends the picture to someone and tries to focus on Sherlock.

"How did you find out? I'm, rather curious..."

And Sherlock tells him everything, the footprints under the window, the glasses, the missing DNA profile.

Moriarty looks slightly impressed. "Honey, that's far more than I expected after... everything."

"What do you mean, "everything?"" Sherlock demands, fingering the pistol in his coat pocket.

"It's rather dangerous to finger a pistol in your coat pocket" Moriarty replies, looking at a message he just received on his phone.

"That may be true – but what do you mean?" Sherlock wants to know, still feeling rather inadequate.

"I am informed by the two murderers of Lord Brackenstall – you were right about that, so you seem to be rather smart, it's really a pity what they have to tell me – that they went through everything they had to do in an abandoned building, when a drug addict stumbled in upon them, apparently living there, not speaking coherently. They had to drug him with far more dangerous stuff, that can cause hallucinations, I fear, as well as feeling exhausted and cold, to make him forget – they may be hit men, but they don't like killing someone they haven't been paid for – though, by now, the drug should be out of your system and you should have stopped hallucinating. A pity, though – I looked forward to a distraction".

Moriarty looks disinterested and Sherlock grows cold.

If he knew about the case because he heard the two murderers discussing it –

If his periods of semi-awareness were just hallucinations, and they seem to have stopped now, so a drug is within the realm of possibility –

Then this is his reality.

And Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective never existed.


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock can only imagine what his friends are going through. But he imagines it quite well, too well for his liking. He can almost see John draw in a deep breath, Greg emptying whichever flask he is currently occupied with, and Mycroft's stony face.

But they don't suffer – they _can't_ suffer – as much as Sherlock does at that moment.

To realize – to know – to have to accept that – your whole life was nothing but a drug-induced dream, a whole life full of crime solving and fighting and pain and, sometimes, joy –

For a second, just a second, he thinks about jumping off the roof, for real this time, but then he remembers that Mycroft, John and Greg are sitting in a car on the street. He can't make them watch him die.

Especially not John. Not a–

No, not again, because that never happened. He never played games with Moriarty, he never destroyed his web, he never lived with an ex-army doctor, he never worked with DI Lestrade, he never annoyed his brother – he doesn't count "taking cocaine" as annoying on purpose.

He has never, _never_ wished he's never been born. But he's at close to it at the moment as he'll ever get.

Moriarty seems to have fun; at least his for the first time since he stepped on the rooftop his gaze is fixed on Sherlock.

"I almost forgot how much fun it was to watch someone's life crumble before his eyes – thank you for reminding me. And, because of that, I'm not going to kill you. Not now, at least. Take it as an early Christmas present, Sherlock Holmes. Oh, and don't even think about using that pistol – your friends may be sitting in a car on the street and listening to our little conversation, but one of mine has a sniper rifle that can shoot farther than any other – there may not be any high buildings in the immediate vicinity, but you can see a few from here, can't you? And it's not only you who would suffer, trust me. I believe you are smart enough to realize what would happen to your friends after you met your end. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes". With that he turns around, whistling "Staying Alive".

Sherlock is still trying to get his thoughts together; he might not be the world's only consulting detective, but he might rid the world of its only consulting criminal, once and for all, even at the cost of his own life, that doesn't seem to be worth that much anyway.

No matter what he is, he can at least do that.

Mycroft, John and Greg should be smart enough to just drive away as fast as they can, but –

 _Sentiment_.

They won't save their lives if it means living him behind.

Then again they're ready to die for this cause, as is he.

But is he ready to _let_ them die? He wasn't in his dreamed-up world.

As Moriarty continues to stride away from him, he realizes he has to choose.

And then he understands.

He not only gets to choose who lives and who dies. Well, who should live or die; he doesn't think he can really control the outcome, but it's a choice nonetheless.

He can choose a _life_.

He might be a cocaine addict who's never done anything but take cocaine for the last twenty years.

And, if he is honest – it's easy.

Meaningless, unimportant, but _easy_.

No cases, no attachments, no pain. Just cocaine.

The other life, the one he dreamed off – it wasn't real, and it was difficult.

It was a constant fight, with criminals, with himself.

And then they clashed, and –

" _I don't think I've eaten or laughed that much in years, so you're welcome to stay"._

" _I can't help but notice there's something different about you, today."_

" _I prefer your version of me to my version of me"._

And so does Sherlock.

He indefinitely prefers his difficult thought-up life to the easy, meaningless one he has apparently been leading all this years.

So that's the life he chooses to believe in. He will have it back, in any way he may live it.

And he'll take the first step now.

Maybe he'll die – if so, he won't die just like any cocaine addict.

He will have done _something_ good.

If he doesn't die – why not go into rehab again? Why not build up the life he has dreamed off?

John wants to help him, and maybe, just maybe, it's not too late to get Greg off the booze after all.

And Mycroft will have something to do at any rate.

So he starts thinking quickly. There isn't anything he could quickly duck behind, but –

If he manages to let himself fall on the roof so that Moran – he's sure it's him – can't shoot him –

First he has to make sure that one shot will kill Moriarty, which is admittedly not easy when you're high.

Moriarty needs to come closer.

And the only way you do that –

Moriarty has almost reached the stairs. His thought process must have been quicker than he realized, he'd have thought that the consulting criminal would be long gone by this point.

He takes a deep breath and calls.

"Just out of curiosity, before I go: Did Jeff Hope eventually die of his aneurism, or did you do away with him because he'd become a risk?"

Moriarty stops walking. In fact, he stands absolutely still. Then he turns around.

"How did you know about Jeff Hope, my dearest druggie?"

Sherlock relaxes, and the irony of this is not lost on him. But Moriarty has turned around and is interested, and he knows the consulting criminal well enough. "Jim" will come closer, the more interested he gets.

"I might be a drug addict, but that doesn't mean I don't know what's going on in London.

I know you paid Jeff Hope – or rather his children – for every murder he committed. I know he gave his victims a choice: either they try their luck and pick a pill, or he'd shoot them – though the gun was a fake..."

He would go into more details, but Moriarty's eyes start to wonder again, and he doesn't want him to get bored enough to just make a signal to his sniper.

"So" he repeats his question, "did you let him live out the rest of his days quietly?"

"As a matter of fact I did" Moriarty answers, and the way Sherlock asked the question – casual, not caring – seems to have done the trick and he strides closer. Though he's still a little bit too far away for Sherlock's liking.

"Though it wasn't the aneurism – in the end, it was a heart attack. Well, sitting all day, no sport – what do you expect?"

And, because Sherlock knows just what to say, he replies with "Dull".

"Indeed". Moriarty's eyes glitter. "Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

He wants to see how much Sherlock knows, if the consulting detective could be an adequate playmate for him, something to obsess over and keep his attention. Sherlock can give him that.

"How is General Chang doing?"

Moriarty's eyes narrow, but there is a hint of admiration in his voice."General Chang? A bit on the slow side, these days, but otherwise..."

"So dead too then" Sherlock says matter-of-factly. He knows every nuance of tone Moriarty could possibly use; there is no denying that secret mirth he heard in these words.

He shrugs his shoulders. "Yes – I don't take kindly on people losing something worth nine million..."

"The Empress' pin? That probably still lies on the bedside table of Eddie Van Coon's PA."

Now Moriarty is impressed. Something predatory is in his glance, as he tries to tell whether Sherlock will be a potential ally or enemy. Something "his" Moriarty never had to think about – but then, the other version knew of Sherlock's cases, knew on which side he stood.

The side of the angels.

A bit dramatic maybe, but all in all correct.

"How did you _know_ that?"

"It's what I do – deducing people" Sherlock replies.

"So – you look at people, pick up clues and tell them their life story? What about me, then?" And now he looks almost like a little child on Christmas, and Sherlock can remember feeling like that so well, when he got an interesting case...

_Survive today and you can start building this life. Focus._

"Easy. You didn't grow up in London – Sussex? Most likely Brighton" and Moriarty comes closer and closer – "You received a good education, despite an obviously difficult childhood – abusive father, I would say, you have more fun talking about dead men than about dead women. But you have no problems killing women on the other hand, so mother was either constantly absent or dead".

"Dead. Drank herself to death when I was two years old..." Moriarty waits a moment, then urges "Go on!"

"Your – and that is a result of my investigations – first murder victim was Carl Powers. He was a young boy, twelve years old, and he bullied you at school, even though you were older – so I guess you weren't a tall boy."

"That's true too. You're not bad, Sherlock". Moriarty is coming even closer now, and soon, Sherlock will be able to put a clean shot between his eyes.

"Thank you, that's quite enough" he says when Sherlock draws his breath – this version of Moriarty is terribly impatient – "but I have a question now".

"Yes?" Sherlock asks, casually bringing his hand near his pocket, without it appearing anything more than coincidence.

"You were the one who solved – well, sort of solved, you haven't the murders yet – the Brackenstall case – you know Lady Brackenstall wanted her husband gone and contacted me, you know I only hired _two_ murderers because I wanted to see if _anyone_ in this dull world would not be so unbelievably ordinary and able to see through my little plan. And you found all that out with the plan of a DI who has seen more bottles than files in the last few years."

Sherlock winces. Of course Moriarty knows everything about every policeman in this city – you can't run a criminal empire otherwise.

"Yes, I know all about your friend. I would say that you deserve better – but then you're a drug addict, so maybe that's not true. Still..."

He looks at Sherlock with a questioning glance.

"Here is my question: What is it going to be? Friends – or enemies? We could be big, you and I together, Sherlock. We could rule the world if we chose to. Think about it."

"I don't have to think about it. And I'm rather sure my answer has already crossed your mind".

Moriarty stops smiling. "You are aware that choosing the side of the angels" – just as dramatic as in Sherlock's dream then – "means choosing death?"

"Yes" Sherlock says, and his voice is firm.

"I am sure that everything I have to say has "already crossed your mind", as you so eloquently put it. So your decision is final?"

"Yes" Sherlock repeats.

Moriarty hasn't even given a sign, that he's aware of, but a shot rings out that seems to come from one of the faraway higher buildings and it doesn't take Sherlock's power of deduction to know that the shot is aimed at the street below, at a car... The consulting criminal smiles.

"So you will bear the consequence. You would already be dead if I didn't think you indefinitely amusing... It's a pity, really. But you, in one of your highs, could decide to tell God knows whom all about me, and killing people just to keep them quiet is so dull... So I fear there is no other way."

"Actually I quite welcome it" Sherlock says, his voice still steady, though his mind raises with the question who just got shot. Moran is an excellent sniper; he almost never misses. But he can't think about that now.

"You do?" Moriarty laughs. "You really are a wonderful distraction, Sherlock Holmes. Take that compliment with you – not many people get it."

"Don't you want to know why I welcome it?"

He sighs dramatically. "So I'll do you the favour and ask. Why?"

"Because – as long as it entails yours, I'm happy to submit to my destruction".

And with that Sherlock draws out the pistol and shoots Moriarty between the eyes, cherishing the look of surprise on his face.

He doesn't get down fast enough, however.

A shot rings out and suddenly there's a weight on his chest and he has trouble breathing.

He's lying on the roof of St Bart's and this time he's rather sure he's actually dying. But at least Moriarty is dead, once and for all.

He does wonder about his friends, though, which one of them is dead, if the other two could escape. He hasn't heard any other shots, but maybe he's just overheard them, being busy bleeding to death.

Then the door to the stairs clangs open, and he hears three – three? – men running in his direction.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" Mycroft, his voice shaking.

"So much for the promise, then. 'Lock, I swear if you don't get up right now, I'll shoot you another hole in your chest, just to even things out". Greg, close to tears.

"Try to breathe, Sherlock, I know it hurts, let me see – " John, desperately trying to still the bleeding, but knowing it is hopeless.

Sherlock smiles. "See? The limp was psychosomatic".

"I know. Don't talk, Sherlock, and please – stay awake".

"I fear that might not be possible" Sherlock answers. He can feel the darkness rushing towards him. But at least Moriarty's dead, and his friends are there.

"Mycroft, remember your promise. And, while you're at it, look after Mrs. Hudson now and then".

"I will" Mycroft replies quietly, voice steady again now, he's holding Sherlock's hand.

Greg touches his shoulder. "Don't worry, 'Lock, I'll look after her too – only when I'm sober. I promise."

"I'll make sure he stays that way" John says, still trying to help and failing, of course, because nobody can help him now.

"Alright then" Sherlock answers and draws in what he supposes is his last breath. "Goodbye".

And then the darkness claims him, despite the shouting of "No! Sherlock!", "Don't you dare, 'Lock!" and "Try, please!". But he has done something good, he has won.

And the darkness is not quite dark or quiet, either.

Because, he doesn't know where from, but there's a light somewhere, and a voice –

" **Sherlock? Sherlock! He's waking up! Come quickly!"**


	25. Chapter 25

He doesn't know what happened, not at first. Then he feels pain in his chest and realizes that he was shot by Moran.

So his friends must have got him to a hospital after all...

That is, until he realizes that he is pain and confused – but, other than this, there is nothing.

No withdrawal symptoms.

Of course, once Mycroft or John or even Greg had told the doctors that he was a cocaine addict, they would have taken the appropriate measures, but still –

Aside from the pain – and he is aware how silly this sounds – he hasn't felt that good in days.

And then he realizes something else.

A shadow in the corner of his eye, coming closer – _John_.

Not limping. Not broken.

Just as he remembers him.

Which has to mean –

_No. Wait for confirmation. Don't theorize without data._

"Sherlock? Are you awake?"

John – _his_ John – obviously hasn't slept or eaten enough for days. There are dark circles under his eyes, and as he turns partially around to glance at the heart monitor, Sherlock can tell that his jumper hides a loss of weight; not too much, but still noticeable.

Then he turns to Sherlock again and looks him in the eyes.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock tries to speak, but fails because he's been intubated, so he makes a noise instead. It's little more than a groan, but it's enough for John to break into a large grin.

"You're awake!"

Again, Sherlock can't say "Obviously", so he rolls his eyes instead, and John laughs a relieved, utterly happy laugh. He squeezes Sherlock's right hand for a moment, then takes a deep breath, but doesn't let go.

"Alright, I'm just going to call the doctors and tell everyone that you're awake..." at the unspoken question in Sherlock's eyes, he answers, "Greg never really left the hospital – he even sent Donavan to a crime scene on her own" and he laughs at the pure terror he can read in Sherlock's glance, "and Mycroft, though he tried to pretend he didn't, spent about as much time here as me and Greg. He would "disappear" for a few hours and claim he had to work, but we know he was just sitting in the cafeteria". John's eyes glitter. "I had to sent Mrs. Hudson home quite frequently; Molly was there too, even Angelo dropped in – and Mike too. But, right now, I think only Greg and Mycroft are there, so I'll tell them and the doctors and – I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere" he jokes, and at a glare from Sherlock he adds, "You scared us all enough. I have the right to make lame jokes – for a while, I'd say." Then he leaves and Sherlock is left with his thoughts.

If John had only mentioned Mycroft and Greg – or is it "Lestrade"? Anyway, he's going to call Lestrade by his first name now, he decides – he couldn't have been sure that he could hope to be where he wanted to be.

But Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and Mike – and Angelo.

Sherlock is home, and this means that the life as a cocaine addict was purely a dream, something his subconscious came up with (although it certainly offered him valuable insight on his thoughts and feelings, and he can't just forget Mycroft without a purpose, broken John or alcoholic Greg).

He is the world's only consulting detective, and he gave up cocaine years ago.

He's rather sure he hasn't been this relieved in his life. Not even when he came back from the dead.

The doctors and John come back in, and he is pronounced to be "on the road to recovery", whatever that may entail, and Sherlock suspects they only leave so quickly because John keeps giving them intimidating stares.

"Greg and Mycroft will be in any minute" he informs Sherlock just as the door closes behind them, "They went to get a decent cup of coffee for once".

His face grows serious. "Sherlock – do you remember what happened? Do you know why you are here?"

Sherlock tries to shake his head, but it hurts, so he makes a negative sound.

"I didn't think you did – you – " John swallows. "Good God, Sherlock, do you really have to make a habit of falling of buildings while I am watching?"

And, just like that, everything comes back.

They were at the crime scene – Sherlock deduced that only one man had been there and not three, not even two, ruling out the Randalls who only work together, and telling her Ladyship to her face that she was lying, had been beaten by her husband and had a lover – who was the murderer. As John pointed out, it was "a bit not good", but she recovered almost instantly, and, when Sherlock told her that he was rather sure that Lord Brackenstall's death was an accident – he had been hit on the head and fallen so unfortunately that he expired almost immediately – she told them that her husband had come home unexpectedly, when she and her lover were in the dining room. There was a quarrel, and her lover struck and accidentally killed her husband. They then tried to make it appear like a crime committed by the gang of robbers they had read a lot about lately – the search for the Randalls had been widely publicized. They actually thought that the three glasses were a nice touch, forgetting that these days, DNA tests were an important part of forensic evidence.

After she had admitted to all of this, she finally told them with tears in her eyes that her lover was hiding in the attic.

Sherlock stormed off before John or Greg could even tell him to take care.

He and the lover fought – the man was terrified of a murder charge – and in the end, Sherlock ended up falling from the attic room window.

So far so good, but why didn't he wake up for – looking at John's clothes and the stubble on his chin – about four days?

Once again, John reads the unspoken question.

"They gave you the wrong medication – you reacted allergic to it, and for about two hours we weren't sure you'd make it, and then you just wouldn't wake up and..." his voice breaks, and he clears his throat. "But you're awake now, that's what counts. Though never fall off a building again."

Sherlock would love to promise it, but he can't talk, so he settles for a kind of nod, which is enough for John.

The door opens again, Greg almost bursts in, while Mycroft settles for an almost unhurried stride. But only almost.

And it's ridiculous, but Sherlock could start to cry when he realizes that Mycroft is dressed as impeccably as always and carrying an umbrella.

"Sherlock – you never cease to amaze me. Just when I thought you'd shocked me enough for a whole lifetime..." Lestrade shakes his head. "If you do anything like this ever again, I promise you weekly drugs busts." Then he grins. "That said, it's good to have you back".

Mycroft clears his throat. "I can only agree with the last sentence of Inspector Lestrade. Though I would appreciate it you not putting yourself at risk that much in the future."

Yes, everything is back to normal. And while he is still rejoicing over that fact, Sherlock drifts of the sleep amidst his friends.

When he wakes up, John is still sitting at his bedside. "You should try to sleep now and then, you know" Sherlock says, still rather groggily, "I am told it's important for human beings".

John looks up and smiles. "Well, if you tell me that..." Then he grows serious. "I thought I'd lose you – again".

"I know. I'm sorry."

And John looks like he is going to take his hand and squeeze it again, but then he decides to do something different and hugs him out of the blue, and it hurts a little, but Sherlock couldn't care less. They don't need more words. Not in a friendship like theirs.

Needless to say, John almost never leaves the room until he can go home.

 _Home. 221B Baker Street._ Finally.

But before that –

During the next few days, he has constant visitors. After the tube has been taken out, he appreciates them even more, because talking is far more entertaining than lying around in a hospital.

There's Mrs. Hudson, who berates him for half an hour before enveloping him into a hug and crying. She tells him not to worry, she has been taking care of John, he has eaten and slept a little in the days Sherlock spent in the other world – as he now calls it, though he'll never tell anyone about it – and that she'll look after them both once he's been released, though she certainly won't make a habit out of it, because she isn't their housekeeper.

There's Molly, who blushes when she sees Sherlock, and he never thought he'd like to see this one day, but here he is. She blushes even more when she sees Lestrade, though.

He can't help but talk to Lestrade about a few things he never told him about before – before it happened, when he and the Inspector are alone, after he's sent John home to sleep and eat.

"Thank you for keeping me company, Greg" he starts – and realizes immediately that his DI is rather shocked.

"No – no problem, Sherlock. No problem at all."

The DI is of course aware why he jumped, though Sherlock has never told him he was one of the three people whose lives were threatened. He's never told anyone; he's rather sure that John and Mrs. Hudson know they are on the list, so why bother? But remembering alcoholic Greg, he decides to make it clear.

"No, I really appreciate it. Hospitals are so dull", and Greg smiles. "That's why I jumped when Moriarty threatened you, John and Mrs. Hudson, after all – you are not boring" he continues, pleasantly.

Greg needs a moment to comprehend what he just said. Then he blinks and clears his throat and turns away, and suddenly Sherlock is rather sure that Lestrade is suppressing a few tears.

Or not, because when he turns around again, a few tears have escaped. "Sherlock, please don't get me wrong – " He sniffles. Sherlock pretends not to notice.

"Can I hug you? Just once?"

"Sure" Sherlock replies, and they hug, and he's rather glad he told the DI the truth. Then they talk about cases that have turned up after Sherlock fell out of the window.

Angelo comes by too and promises a free dinner for all of Sherlock's friends, once the consulting detective has recovered, and when Sherlock warns him that it may be a rather long list, this time – John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, the Stamford family – he looks pleased.

Mycroft drops in far more often than he would have, once upon a time, and they talk rather pleasantly – without biting or sarcastic remarks.

Mycroft is the one to point it out.

"Sherlock, are you alright? You seem different since you woke up" and for once, his brother is actually caring and not annoyed.

"I'm fine, Mycroft, it's all fine. I've just been thinking..." He trails off.

"Yes?" Mycroft prompts.

"Have you ever wondered what would have happened if – if I'd continued to take drugs?"

Mycroft looks... pained. "I have often wondered what would happen if you relapsed. Not since you met Doctor Watson, though".

Sherlock nods, because there's nothing left to do, and they sit in comfortable silence for a few moments. Then, his brother say, very quietly, "I suppose we would both be rather lonely. But – have you ever thought about it?"

"You're right – I' sure you are right" Sherlock replies. "And, yes – I – I think I can imagine it rather well. It's not important, though".

They leave it at that, and Sherlock thinks to himself that he doesn't need to tell anybody; he doesn't need to think endlessly about it.

It happened, and it made him know a whole different side of himself, and he hasn't had a flashback of his three lost years ever since he woke up, so it's fine. It's all fine.

Mike Stamford is the last one to visit – not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't intrude, and seeing as it's Mike, Sherlock believes him.

And then he tells them – John is by his side, of course, where he belongs – with a happy smile on his face: "Sue is pregnant again. We found out the day after Sherlock's accident" – God Bless Mike, calling it an "accident" – "But we didn't want to tell anyone, well, except for Sue's mother, that is, until Sherlock recovered."

John congratulates Mike, while Sherlock tries to breathe.

He can't have deduced it – he hasn't seen Sue in a few months.

He can't have heard it. Not even while he was unconscious, because Mike didn't want to tell anyone until Sherlock recovered.

So does that mean that, for as long as he walked around in it, at least, the other world was real?

But then he decides it doesn't matter. He is here, where he belongs, in the real world – a CT has been made, so he knows this is the real world – and if it was a supernatural happenstance – so be it.

As long as he's home.

So he smiles and congratulates Mike, and the next day, he can go back to John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg's cases and Mycroft's pestering. And Angelo's dinner, of course, during which he looks around for a moment and wonders when he did acquire that many friends, and thanking whatever immortal being, if there is one, that's looking over human fates, that he chose to give up cocaine all these years ago.

He made the right choice years ago, and if that means that he has to live with memories he'd rather not deal with and almost constant danger and annoying human beings, so be it.

There's nowhere else he'd rather be.


End file.
